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.

I'm Not A 'Racist', I'm American

Now, I don’t want to come off as bragging, but since I moved to Paris, I have killed at least 43 ants- sometimes three at a time! They are not just in my place, I think they’re everywhere in the Spring, like the urine smell. I can’t exactly figure it out because there is nothing to eat in my apartment, but maybe it has something to do with the baguettes. Those are everywhere too, so it is possible that we’re secreting bread through the pores in our feet. Crazier things have happened- like Obama- no one saw that coming! I’m not a racist because I voted for Obama. However, I have noticed that African Americans from France and Britain talk just as loud as in the US.

I am so glad I got that off my chest, it’s like a weight has been lifted. My honkey American friend said I probably couldn’t write about it, but I was like “cracker- watch me!” he was like “now, don’t be calling me no cracker,” and I was like “whatever, round eye!”

I am watching Sex And The City Season 6 for the 3rd or 4th time, because I’m in Paris and she goes to Paris at the end of the Season. She just started dating a Russian, who’s name I can say, but can’t spell. He doesn’t get a lot of her jokes, but he makes her breakfast and seems to be ready to commit. I accidentally found myself on a date that I thought was a language exchange. He was an enthusiastic French man and I knew we might have a barrier of understanding when he asked me if I like women because I shrugged away from being guided across the street. I told him that I wasn’t a lesbian because I didn’t like the texture. He asked “what is ‘texture’?” I proceeded to inform him that I was only interested in language exchange, not romance and he said “I feel like you are attacking me!” He said it in such a way that made me think that I might have been. I tried to apologize, explaining that my ex had “low self-esteem” and my dad “wasn’t there.” Then I ran off to Brighton, England to do some heavy duty counseling because I realize that there has to be some significant healing before I can even make eye contact with an interested French man. They romance like African Americans: intense(ly). Also, it couldn’t hurt to heal the misconceptions I have held of both my parents, so my relationship with myself and everyone I meet is based in truth and not the illusion of some falseho... hey! Where’s that ant going with my bread?!