This Is Something Relevant

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.

Romance And God

Just another Manic Lundi... When I say “manic”, I mean I have a cold and an aversion to life, but must push on.

Yesterday I went and saw a movie here in France, my first cinema in Paris, it was very exciting. It was Thor and it made me think that films have just begun using irony as an excuse to not actually write. I enjoyed the movie, I mean I laughed, but mostly it sucked... was really bad. There, that is the best job I could do at a critique because I am busy, too busy to criticize movies from Hollywood. What if I spent all the energy I had looking at what other people did “creatively” and pulled it apart, what would I come up with besides something defensive and uninspired? Maybe a career, but that’s not what I am talking about. I could die any minute and I would opt for it at any time because my most cherished belief is dying anyway.

Romance. People come to Paris to find love, but I came to forget it, it seems. Or find it in a more reliable source, myself. We are born alone and we die alone, unless you believe in God and then you can say “I was never alone.” However, God isn’t going to put a dick in you and tell you your skin is soft. You can’t ask God where he’s been and who’s this girl writing on his Facebook wall. So, God may as well not exist, right? Look, it doesn’t matter what I think or you think. If there is a God, our opinion has no bearing on it’s existence beyond our own lives. I doubt God is like Tinker Bell, and needs your applause to function. Just like I doubt that God would retaliate at the end of this life for your approval or disapproval. I imagine God would be terribly confident, being all knowing and such. Probably wouldn’t hold any patriotic favor or have a favorite celebrity. Most of all, God wouldn’t have a soul mate. God wouldn’t search the world for that one person who can complete God. God would just get a dog, because of all the fun they would have spelling their titles on paper “DOGGOD” (they laugh together).

I think God get’s talked about quite enough in one day without monopolizing a page in my book. Let’s talk about me and what I am soberly realizing. There is no one for me, but me. Le sigh. I don’t even want a dog. So, here I am, in the most beautiful and romantic country, thinking about how I better learn to date myself because the other option is mostly bullshit. I am not saying this bitterly, but just soberly (and a little bitterly).

The only thing enviable about people in relationships, is they still have hope that it’s a means to an end. Everything ends, sometimes quickly, other times in death. I am not saying I don’t think I wont fall in love again, I am saying that it doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. There is no destination to it, unless it opens you to your own truth. Sometimes the best way to open to your own truth is to be alone, with some calm peace of mind that has nothing to do with wondering what he’s thinking right now. I wish that I wanted this more than foreplay, but I see where I am heading and don’t know if it’s bleak or liberating.

I am going to need some time to let this dog die before I burn it and spread the ashes all over the fertile ground that will nourish me when I am burying myself in isolation. I wish that this realization could be paired with casual sex, vacations and couple photos. Why am I here? Who am I?