Fab Moretti, the drummer from the Strokes has a Facebook page and approved my friend request! Yes, I am sure it’s him, because he’s got a photo of himself up; Legit much? It’s so funny, though, he only has 284 friends and I have almost 900, maybe I should be a drummer for the Strokes... if ticket sales ever aren’t doing well, because his inability to connect, I mean. It feels really good being so socially superior to a famous person. I am sure that I am because of the friend tally, plus I have been tagged in way more photos. Maybe he hasn’t been tagged because he’s always hidden behind people. I dated a drummer once, didn't like his face, but he used to hand drum on my back after sex and I liked that. Nothing like being a bongo to make you feel substantial.
Fab Moretti dated Drew Barrymore for five years, so that’s follow through. I think that says something about the guy, not sure what, but I am pretty sure it means I am a shoe in if I could just dumb it down a bit. I don’t want to say that. Why did I say that? Drew Barrymore isn’t a dum dum, she’s actually pretty savvy, but she talks with elongated “ums,” which is indicative of stupidness. That doesn’t make her stupid, just like if someone has a large forehead, doesn’t mean they have fetal alcohol syndrome. However, it’s a safe assumption that their parents don’t love them (look at that forehead). I do yoga and have full breasts that I used to flash all over the place, so he might love me for 3-7 years.
Uuuuuuum, this all reminds me of the time I sent John Mayer a friend request on Myspace and quietly believed he would recognize that I was his soul mate from my profile pictures. He approved my request right away, so I was pretty hopeful, although he didn’t read my message- ever. I thought that I should try dumbing it down a little, so he might like me. I rewrote the letter with lots of “likes” and very little punctuation. A year later he started dating Jessica Simpson and I gave up on me and him- I couldn’t dumb it down THAT much. That isn’t fair, I shouldn’t say that about her, she clearly has some proclivity towards canniness... her clothing line is doing really well. Also, she is getting married to an athlete- take that John Mayer. Seriously, though, call me- I have such a stupid voice.
I wanted to write about travel and living abroad everyday, but the reality is after two months in Paris, there is nothing left to say. I don’t think it’s the same city it used be, and if it is, people are really stupid- like Jessica Barrymore stupid for building it up so... I mean, it's pretty, but ah, uuuum, I shouldn’t say mean things like that, like it doesn’t count. I am excited to travel to Spain next month and Greece the month after that. Other than that, I just kind of take it day to day, meeting people and trying to keep an open heart and mind, except when I am walking places. When I walk places I am all tank-like, because I get riddled with meaningless compliments by men who don’t seem to realize that the mere fact that they are flattering me negates the act by the assumptive intention they use. They seem to have it that stopping me might just get them somewhere. If I was truly beautiful, you wouldn’t approach me, now would you greasy fatso?
Speaking of greasy fatsos, I am mad at my ex, who isn’t a greasy fatso, but would really hate that I used that descriptive. He was my best friend on the internet, maybe in the world and all the sudden he just stopped talking to me. I don’t know if it’s because I was like “look, stop acting like a fucking loser” or because I slept with his brother... that’s not true, but it could be if he doesn’t get with it. I will fly to where his family is and seduce his brother while wearing a disguise and using a fake name. Yeah, don’t let me get away, asshole. My ex spent half the time we talked, telling me how he likes that I don’t let him get away with anything and one day I say something about how he’s once again escaping reality by doing mushrooms on a monday morning in his dank apartment... and I’M so fucked up?! I guess I should consider it a blessing, because I am now free to date Fab Moretti with out feeling guilty. I mean, I don't have to worry about how that might make my ex feel or that it might make him drink. I have felt a little helpless with regards to losing my ex as a friend, so I was like “how can I get my power back?” and I thought that I might block him from Facebook, so I don’t have to be reminded he is on the internet, not keeping in touch with me. I wont do that though, for obvious reasons... I want to win the friend spread competition I’m having with Fab Moretti. Uuuuuum, totally.
Showing posts with label Facebook. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Facebook. Show all posts
Monday, June 13, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Cheek Kisses Are Not A Promise Ring
I woke up this morning and made way to my computer, which makes mornings much more rewarding now that I live in Paris. The time difference has it so that when I sleep, the majority of my Facebook friends are awake, avoiding whatever they should be doing in their lives 9 hours behind me. They are on Facebook and communicating to... moi. I wake up with enough notifications accrued to make me feel like I have a purpose, so I make some coffee and hunker in for a full 40 minutes of work.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:
"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”
I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.
I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.
My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.
It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:
"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”
I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.
I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.
My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.
It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.
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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