Twilight And Political Rapists

I am working on getting rid of a cold that I have had longer than I usually keep a cold. I have been sleeping a fair amount and haven’t been indulging in excessive sugar. However, I can’t seem to give up coffee for a day. I have decided that if my cold doesn’t show signs of improvement by tomorrow, I will just drink tea for the amount of time I need to get back to pristine health.

By giving up coffee I am missing out on opportunities in conversation, like the one I just had. I regularly patron the cafe a block away from my apartment called Latin St Germain. It is at the skirts of the Latin Quarter on Boulevard Saint Germain. A no nonsense name like that and it’s convenient distance from me is what has me coming here almost everyday. I am such a regular that I am on a first name basis with the comparatively conservative waitstaff. Comparatively, of course, to America, where being a regular in a cafe is more likely to get you an STD, than first-name recognition. Fareed, one of my two regular waiters here, feels so comfortable with me, he asked me where I’m from today, but in French of course, I responded in perfect French: “WHAT?!”
When I figured out what his question was, I smiled and said “Etats-Unis,” which is French for “United States”. This led into the subject of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is a politician favored to be the next president of France, but currently being held with out bail, in New York for the attempted rape of a housekeeper. My waiter began talking with me about it (it was obviously on his mind) and quickly stopped when I said “yes, I know it’s a large spectacle!” but in broken French. He must have known the futility of my simple mind, or he had a job to do and discussing rape with one of the establishment’s regular patrons wasn’t “prudent”. It’s only disappointing, because my limited French vocabulary was sure to lead to some fun hand gestures.

Next to America, France is down right medieval with respect for heads of state. I mean they show more reverence towards their politicians and their privacy. Politicians here can pretty much rape freely with little consequence, other than from their own conscience, which already seems a bit defective with all that rape it manages to allow. I heard a woman, here, upset that we put him in handcuffs, like a “criminal”. I should also reiterate that it was a woman who was upset that we snagged a fleeing dignitary who thought it proper to just have his way with the help- our help. I bet they also think “she was just a housekeeper,” but I don’t know. I may be too American/ too woman/ too “the help” to objectively report on something that offends me so much. However, what if he didn’t flee, do you think that they would have fallen in love, like Maid In Manhattan?

I like the idea for a movie that is like Twilight, but instead of Vampires they are all crazed rapists; Immortal rapists, and over the past century, they have disciplined themselves to show women respect by only raping animals. One day, a new girl comes to the Birmingham High School and sits down, right next to Johan Bullen: reformed-immortal-serial-rapist. Her appeal is the strongest he's ever encountered, making his dick so hard it tears through the desk. He has to flee the school and find an animal- any animal! An unlucky mutt lay dying along the road after being hit by a car. The dog is taking in it’s last breaths, thinking about the little girl he loved and is leaving behind when Johan runs up on it’s lifeless body. As Johan tries to expel the urge to rape that beautifully defiant, teenager he left in class, he fucks the remaining existence out of the dog. “Damn,” he says to himself, knowing there wasn’t enough fight to satiate his thirst. He ejaculates anyway and begins a new search with a flaccid, but promising penis. Later, he and the girl fall in love and he is always telling her how difficult it is not to rape the shit out of her and she gets butterflies.
I think this is a relatable script with a large demographic because who can't remember being a tormented 14 year old with an enormous crush on a boy at school? Okay, this is about me now, I had this crush. He even asked me to be his girlfriend once, but I never answered because my fear literally choked the agreement from binding us forever. I was slightly grunge, but mostly melodramatic, lamenting Cobain’s death and piercing myself outside of school. One day my crush and I were walking to school from the bus stop and I asked him if he would do me a favor and kill me. He told me “yes, but I would rape you first.” TIME STOOD STILL and I was in love with him for 2 years after that, until a “friend” of mine started sleeping with him when I went into residential treatment for "behavioral difficulty". She told me he had blackheads behind his ears, which completely expunged my affection for him. Still, I look back on the potential rape that would have changed my life and I wonder how hard an emaciated 14 year old could have fought the boy of her fancy... not too hard. Still, it was the sweetest thing a boy ever said to me until my last boyfriend looked at my stomach after sex and said “you actually have some abs under there.” My heart knows what it wants.

As I nurse myself back to health, thinking on my past, America’s past and France’s present, I contemplate a screen-play, about beastiality, that might finally restore respect for the film industry and put America and France back to the same amiability as the good ol’ slave days.

The Only Fabrication Should Be The Fashion

It’s been close to lonely here in Paris. I have made a few friends, but nobody I see day in and day out like on Sex and the City. I have decided it is time to take matters into my own hands and put out a personals ad. I tried walking around and meeting people, but for the most part, no one looks me in the eye or tries to take my earbuds out of my head to say “hello”. Rude fucking French. It’s not like I am the Retard from There’s Something About Mary, although I have zipped my own penis into a baseball. Sarah Silverman was in that movie and now she doesn’t talk to me, where’s my galactic empire, Steven Spielberg?! I am free associating right now and the ideas are just pouring out of me... kinda like this morning when I farted and it smelled like diarrhea, because it was! Luckily I was at work, so nobody noticed. I just said “this coffee tastes weird!”

My neighbor farts so loud I can hear it through the walls when I wear ear plugs to bed- it woke me up out of drifting off to sleep last night. I heard him rushing down the hallway, opening the door and closing it, then erupting like he was so glad he was home where nobody could hear him. I yelled “I will kill you for that!” then I set my alarm for every two hours so I could scream “you’re a dead man, farty-pants.” Anyway, he must drink Illy espresso too, because I did the same thing at work this morning. Nobody said anything, maybe because I am a nanny and the 3 month old can’t talk, but the Mom was in the next room. I heard her jump, like I startled her, so I just told her “the baby destroyed itself all over the walls and this coffee tastes weird... I will clean up the baby. You better make a new one because I need this job!” She came running in and just as I suspected, she was so relieved her baby was alive, I demanded a raise. She asked me why I was squatting with my butt in the baby's face and I said "farting, stop coddling him!"

Coffee is exactly what my friends and I will drink every day at the same place, as soon as I find them, but I am sure I will because I am writing the following ad to hang up in bathrooms at expensive restaurants all over Paris.

Bonjour!

Okay, enough of that French crap- where my New Yorkers at?! I need three, attractive women to be friends with me. One blonde, one brunette and an unnaturally bright red-head. You should have a lot of disposable income and treat me like a fashion receptacle for high end shoes and hand bags. You should also buy drinks, meals and airfare. Let’s travel together. I am a writer and I tell jokes! This means that I am Carrie, so don’t even try to be quirky like me... obviously there is only room for one of us at a table. I am at the point of the show where I am broken up from Big after some other break ups, but we are totally friends. The thing is, I don’t think Big and I will ever get married in this version of our show because he likes skinny girls and I like bread. So, you can set me up with Aiden and this time I will marry him, so that after we have three children we can meet in Abu Dhabi and him kissing me will be totally okay, although I will still call Big and tell him- he should have tried harder. Samantha, keep your clothes on, okay?It’s different this time, this is Abu Dhabi and I am not a good enough friend to tolerate everything about you. This is real life, not an HBO series. You should all be available every day to hang out over a snack. You can be French, but make sure your hair color meets the requirements. Also, no speaking French to us, or on the phone in front of us until I am fluent... even then, dumb it down, it’s not all about you and your linguistics. Get over yourself! Call me when you’re ready to be a good friend.


Regards,
Abbey (like “Carrie”, but with “Abbey” instead)

That’s it, I better go because I suspect the requests are going to come rolling in and I may even have to quit my job for a week or so while I interview. I, of course, will have to bill them after they are hired. I stopped a few people at the Quai and asked if they had other friends here, but they ran- five year olds are so bizarre. It’s not like I only play with kids, but they are the only ones short enough to look me in the eye. I’m not looking up for any adult, that’s how you get water squirted in your eye from those fake pocket flowers. If cartoons taught me anything, it was how to survive, but I am not a cartoon and a stream of water that big would simply drown me. Thank you for surviving this piece of writing, which was the locutionary version of a whoopie cushion.

Lost In Translation, But With More Jokes- Lost.

Bonjour.

You know you’re in Paris when... Hey I just said “urine”! That should about do it for me, this blog could write itself on that gust of wind.

You can walk almost anywhere in Paris during the Spring and see what all the fuss is about. Even the Parisians are excited when the sun comes out, which might be why they take to peeing in what must be drones. It is the worst smelling urine I have ever encountered- the pee smells like the men’s bathroom in a bar that is notorious for bad decisions. It’s like they are trying to ward off stray cats here! Well, I haven’t seen any, so I think we can learn something, AMERICA.

It’s going to take more than putrid streets to keep this kitten in the house. Which is why I went to a language meet up/ picnic today, to practice French and meet people. Basically the group was too big to do language practice and no one wanted to be my friend because they all brought food and I brought postcards.

Like it were my idea to have a picnic at the Eiffel Tower, they should have hosted it at the grocery store if food was so fucking important. Give me back my postcards!

It was 70 degrees and there were representatives from all over on this patch of grass in the Champs De Mars (the park in front of the Eiffel Tower). There were Italians, French, Lebanese, South Africans, Americans and Hungary. Uh oh... did somebody say “hungry” in front of the American stand up comedian?!

I asked a woman where she was from and she said “Hungary” and I said “I was just there, but I got a crepe!” and she said “oh! where were you?” I answered her “South Kensington, London, really- I like your hair.” Can’t wait to take to the stage here, someone invited me to their improv group and I squatted down and yelled “je suis une chaise!” (I am one chair)... I’m so in.

I ended up at a party later that night, but on my way to the party I was walking down Rue Saint Germain listening to my ipod, when someone swooped up on my left side with some important news! He started speaking French with some urgency to me, very quickly and I politely told him I didn’t understand, so in broken English he basically told me I looked amazing, he was only here one night and asked me to go this party with him. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!

Before I left the States for Europe my ex gave me the best going away present you can get before heading to Paris... He sat me down to watch Taken. Taken is a movie starring Liam Neeson, who plays a dad (and former CIA operative) of a hot piece of virgin ass that gets kidnapped and sold into human trafficking. Basically they trick pretty girls into going to parties, then they tie them up, fill them with drugs and sell them to really sweet guys that can’t meet a good girl because they have so much money. Anyway, I have been on my guard- even at the museum!

FELLOW: [brushing past me] “Pardon.”

ME: [crouching down and shitting my own pants] “NO!”

I heard that if you’re ever getting raped, or about to, you should try shitting your own pants. The thing is, there are times where I can’t even shit my own toilet for a couple days, but I don’t have to worry about rape then because my belly sticks out a little. In conclusion, almost being forced into human trafficking/ sex slavery is the sweetest thing that has ever happened to me and it gave me so much confidence at the party I was originally planning to go to. I made like three new Facebook friends and my hymen is still in tact... and when I say “hymen”, I mean like “hi, men... over here... no? okay- maybe after I poo poo.”

Couture And C. Norris

I want to share some of my favorite things to do in Paris... first off, eating bread, secondly, whine that I eat too much bread... also- I love botching a perfectly good conversation between two French people by saying “J’ vrais ecole demain!”

“I have class tomorrow!” If I had a helmet, I would be the happiest little project these altruistic French friends ever had. They were, no doubt, discussing their views on the election next year or the economic state and their hopes for the future when I find the slightest break to interject “I HAVE CLASS TOMORROW!” This is my contribution to intellectual conversation- my wailing inconsolable interruptions are as frequent as they are obnoxious.

However, I now have the ultimate conversation starter here, in Paris: “Est-ce que tu aime Chuck Norris?” Which directly translates to “do you like talent?” I have found that the two people asked this question have expressed great interest in art/ Texas Art Ranger. They both knew that happiness was easily available every Sunday at 2pm... if you own a television- naturally.

I am trying to work up the nerve to ask my waiter about his interest in Texas Ranger, but I haven’t even got the nerve to ask for water... it’s a very difficult word for me to pronounce here “eau”, but you ask for it like “d’eau” and it sounds like “doh!” It’s bad enough being a thirsty American, but top it off with a involuntarily Homer Simpson impression and I am a stereo-type adorned in more cotton than even a parody should be wearing.

This city is the most stylish city I have ever seen- even the waiters add elegance to their uniforms. I feel like such a slob in my puffy, blue vest and black leggings. I know that if you “own” what you wear, people will look at you like you meant to do that, but even I- the most confident person I talk to regularly- have a difficult time making this theft proof fanny pack look indigenous or even inspired by anything other than fear.

So if I am not talking, I am wearing clothes and even if I weren’t, I am a size 6 with piercings and tattoos, so there is no avoiding the obvious billboard I am for a country with such variations of class that I am automatically defensive- especially because I have an unforgivable urge to ask people about their interest in Chuck Norris. Je suis American! Bien Sur!