I had a million great ideas today, two solid ones and I thought “I have to go write about that.” I didn’t write it down because they seemed more like status updates than full length blogs, but now there is nothing. I did think that wearing a lace body suit instead of panties is going to make peeing awfully obnoxious, luckily lace will dry. I also thought that if you were trying to get out of meeting up with friends at the last minute, you could say you peed all over your clothes accidently. Another awkward situation would be to ask on a third date “did I ever tell you about the time I pooped in the shower, last year?”
IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!
I have a very pretty friend, who is a boy and French, but NOT my boyfriend. He reads my blogs and asks me questions about what things mean. He also asked me who John Mayer was after watching one of my videos on the internet. At this point, he posted something from Youtube, on his wall and called it “very funny”. It had three guys, speaking French, at urinals... I didn’t catch what they were saying, but I did see that the joke was they were helping one another pee. I told him not to read my blogs anymore. Mainly because he is so pretty and I talk about pooping in the shower, but also because I talk about pooping in the shower. I was thinking about that while I was in the shower.
So, I had all these ideas and then I sneezed, now I am homeless. I gave a homeless fellow in Paris some money for an Evian at the register of a grocery store. He was confused about the price and of the difference he was short, but though confused, he was speaking French. After I helped him, he asked me where I was from and you know what... he’d been there, he’d been everywhere! He was an American, well-traveled, filthy, old and broke. I was with my French friend at the time and he said “that’s what happens, the Americans come here, spend all their money and end up homeless.” He also pointed to some white paint splattered on the cement and told me it was a “Pollack”. I think that there is a chance he might have been “pulling my leg”, but I didn’t ask, because it would take too long to explain what this expression means. Also, I have a lap top, there is no way I am going to be “homeless”, where would I plug in my electronics?!
I wasn’t far from homeless with that bit about pooping in the shower, though, was I? Pretty vagrant activity right there. I should do it again, call my gorgeous French friend over and tell him “look, it’s a ‘Pollack’! If it were a ‘Sydney Pollack’, it would be scat porn... isn’t that funny?” He would reply with “What is scat porn?” and we will never kiss or get married because of this blog.
Showing posts with label Charity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Charity. Show all posts
Friday, May 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Lazy In Paris, Crazy In Love
It’s one of those Spring days in Paris where you just have to get out of the house: Tuesday.
As much as I know that the day is lovely from my run earlier, I feel crippled by laziness in a way that makes me ask “who’s running this program?” I read a few pages of a book, half-heartedly watched an episode of Sex And The City... even though I have seen it at least 4 times. I wonder if I am being influenced negatively by the consumerism in that show... are my own values strong enough to objectively enjoy such garbage?
The sun is shining down pretty nicely and I could walk along the Quay, meeting people and enjoying the sights, but can’t I just nap? Like a cat... they got all these lives, what’s the big deal? I tried meditating, but I think I just fell asleep, not without seriously observing my thoughts. Funny how this cat stuff really played out there, I was just chasing my tail in an attempt to pass through the worm hole, instead pass through my hole... that has worms? MEEEEE-YOW! I am going out side in nothing special, get ready Paris!
I sat at the Luxembourg Gardens reading David Sedaris: Me Talk Pretty One Day. The second half of the book is his account for the time he spent in Parisian movie theaters, mostly avoiding the culture and typical things you must do while living in Paris. I feel a kinship with this writer and simultaneously assume he might hate me if he ever met me. C’est la vie. I heard about the content of this book after I had already moved to Paris, preparing to write about my experiences in fresh light, only to find out someone older and more interesting did that a few years ago. Oh well, gotta do something to keep myself from talking to people.
On my way to the gardens I saw a woman with a sign that read “I’m hungry” (but in French). I was too, and short on cash, but I gave her a little over one euro. I should clarify that I never ever give money to people begging and have even been known to pick a fight with weaker boyfriends who have dared challenged my staunchness by example. “If I wanted to fuck Princess Diana, I’d be a lesbian” I’d explain, along with some well educated assumptions about what disease that money was going to enable. I did this for so long I didn’t even notice the rancor that came over me every time I passed someone with a sign. In my resolution to do more random acts of kindness I was pissed when I saw her there, all hungry and shit, but I gave her all my change, as opposed to just the .30- I gave the euro as well- but not without an internal fight that kept me against the wall opposite her for some time while I thought. She said thank you and I walked away thinking that she could at least buy a baguette and I felt good... I mean really good, like “uh oh, Abbey,” because I was thinking about running into the super market and buying her a sandwich, then giving her my job... she seems qualified enough. I am short on funds, but giving her €1.30 is nothing but a reminder for me to be more mindful in what I spend on myself and enjoy that in which I do.
One of my favorite ways to avoid learning French is to sit around watching the American West Coast clock turn to noon, so I know when my ex is awake and available to “poke” me on Facebook. I recently asked him if he were “poking” anybody else on Facebook, or if I got special favor. He assured me, that it was a special thing between just the two of us... and my friend’s mom, who also “pokes” me. I moved to the most romantic city on Earth and look forward to getting poked in such a way that not only my ex-boyfriend can, but also my best friend’s slightly senile mother. She never hugged my friend when he was growing up, knowing this inside information regarding her aversion to physical contact, I always greet her with a long, tight hug. I don’t have the nerve to kiss her on the cheek, but if she ever visited Europe I definitely would. Until then, “poking” on Facebook should suffice every physical need I might ever have.
As much as I know that the day is lovely from my run earlier, I feel crippled by laziness in a way that makes me ask “who’s running this program?” I read a few pages of a book, half-heartedly watched an episode of Sex And The City... even though I have seen it at least 4 times. I wonder if I am being influenced negatively by the consumerism in that show... are my own values strong enough to objectively enjoy such garbage?
The sun is shining down pretty nicely and I could walk along the Quay, meeting people and enjoying the sights, but can’t I just nap? Like a cat... they got all these lives, what’s the big deal? I tried meditating, but I think I just fell asleep, not without seriously observing my thoughts. Funny how this cat stuff really played out there, I was just chasing my tail in an attempt to pass through the worm hole, instead pass through my hole... that has worms? MEEEEE-YOW! I am going out side in nothing special, get ready Paris!
I sat at the Luxembourg Gardens reading David Sedaris: Me Talk Pretty One Day. The second half of the book is his account for the time he spent in Parisian movie theaters, mostly avoiding the culture and typical things you must do while living in Paris. I feel a kinship with this writer and simultaneously assume he might hate me if he ever met me. C’est la vie. I heard about the content of this book after I had already moved to Paris, preparing to write about my experiences in fresh light, only to find out someone older and more interesting did that a few years ago. Oh well, gotta do something to keep myself from talking to people.
On my way to the gardens I saw a woman with a sign that read “I’m hungry” (but in French). I was too, and short on cash, but I gave her a little over one euro. I should clarify that I never ever give money to people begging and have even been known to pick a fight with weaker boyfriends who have dared challenged my staunchness by example. “If I wanted to fuck Princess Diana, I’d be a lesbian” I’d explain, along with some well educated assumptions about what disease that money was going to enable. I did this for so long I didn’t even notice the rancor that came over me every time I passed someone with a sign. In my resolution to do more random acts of kindness I was pissed when I saw her there, all hungry and shit, but I gave her all my change, as opposed to just the .30- I gave the euro as well- but not without an internal fight that kept me against the wall opposite her for some time while I thought. She said thank you and I walked away thinking that she could at least buy a baguette and I felt good... I mean really good, like “uh oh, Abbey,” because I was thinking about running into the super market and buying her a sandwich, then giving her my job... she seems qualified enough. I am short on funds, but giving her €1.30 is nothing but a reminder for me to be more mindful in what I spend on myself and enjoy that in which I do.
One of my favorite ways to avoid learning French is to sit around watching the American West Coast clock turn to noon, so I know when my ex is awake and available to “poke” me on Facebook. I recently asked him if he were “poking” anybody else on Facebook, or if I got special favor. He assured me, that it was a special thing between just the two of us... and my friend’s mom, who also “pokes” me. I moved to the most romantic city on Earth and look forward to getting poked in such a way that not only my ex-boyfriend can, but also my best friend’s slightly senile mother. She never hugged my friend when he was growing up, knowing this inside information regarding her aversion to physical contact, I always greet her with a long, tight hug. I don’t have the nerve to kiss her on the cheek, but if she ever visited Europe I definitely would. Until then, “poking” on Facebook should suffice every physical need I might ever have.
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