Part of being a new ex pat from America, is an unhealthy attachment to the internet and peanut butter. The internet thing has you looking at old friend’s photos to see what they’re doing and who they know now that you are gone. Part of me wonders if I am comparing the appearance of my life to theirs, but am almost positive that I am just avoiding doing what I need to do by hanging out on Facebook. There is always something comforting in the creepiness of stalking strangers, but even better than that, is the idea of a world where you can comment on strangers photos without virtually knowing them.
“Be careful!”, “: P” or “That better be juice!” has an air of invested concern that might be reassuring coming from a complete outsider... or it could be gross, depending on my profile pic. I remember, back when I was on Myspace, forever ago, I thought creating a page where I was Jesus Christ would be brilliant. I was sure no one had ever thought of it and I was confident I was an ironic genius. However, as you can imagine, thousands of mentally retarded and just mildly dumb, but hopeful people already had the same idea. The difference between them and I, was they were just creatively crippled enough to follow through with it. I was a proud dum dum, so I pretended I never thought of it and instead became a rapper. I would be the first white, female mc to hit the big time... I didn’t know a lot about hip hop, or even appreciate it very much, but I did like words and music videos. Don’t worry guys, I also seriously checked into Scientology... also... did I say also? Do you know what “also” means? Maybe you should stop here, look it up and write three sentences using it, so you know it- then write down everything bad you’ve ever done. That will be $300, why are you looking at me like that- are you on medication?
Back to commenting on strangers photos, that would be great, especially if they were teenagers or something. I think there are a few members of my family I could do that to and have the same desired “awkward affect.” It was good to get this off my chest and maybe not even slightly amusing- mission accomplished.
Paris is still breathing and I miss America in the strange smell of a new home. I have made some friends here and have routines that help me feel grounded instead of isolated or helpless. There is a comfort in redundancy, unless it results in you getting stalked and raped because they know exactly what you’re going to do next and have known for many sweaty nights. I don’t think that French men technically rape, because they kiss you a bunch... you’re welcome. I sit outside at the same cafe almost everyday to write these inspired little peeks into a still safe-guarded vulnerability. My inauthentic ramblings and inane musings are made possible by perseverance and caffeine. Today, I was writing, when a man came to peak his grey topped head over the glass divider to interrupt my “work”. He began talking to me, asking me if I was American, before I even verbally responded. “I thought you were American...” I take off my glasses, because I am not a complete asshole, so I reject with eye contact and he then says “ah yes, your eyes, that’s what I wanted to see! Everyday I see you here, behind your computer and your sunglasses and I think ‘I need to see those eyes!’” I think to myself “you need to see a shrink,” but I don’t say this, because I know that it was meant as a compliment and he’s got that handsome “ old boat captain/ skipper” thing going, so it wasn’t terribly insulting. I am just not an American who came to Paris to be treated in some generic way that guys here must be used to hooking American women with... desperate women wanting to be touched. I am desperate for some touch, but also a stickler for originality. The last boy I loved kissed me for the first time as I was about to go poo poo in the port-o-potty under a bridge- I miss his kisses. He wants to have babies with me someday, but he also likes me better when I am a bit fatter because that means I am having lazy time- his favorite. Maybe babies can wait until I change him.
So, I am on Facebook and at the cafe everyday. I talk to my ex in some way several times a week, but I am free to sudo-date here, just don’t tell him. I explore options knowing full well, that everything wont go past platonic because I cannot date somebody who doesn’t respect me for my mind and sense of humor. As it stands my jokes are lost on most and I am not interested in men who approach me on the street with some slick-talking solicitation that exceeds trite. I may be a prude, but I know what I like and there is nothing wrong with having time to write a book or pluck all the hair from my pubic region instead of getting pounded several times a day/week by a man who loves you.
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