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.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
I Nreed Some Brinds
I live in a chambre de bonne next to Sorbonne University, in Paris. A chambre de bonne is a make shift room, at the top of buildings and it’s where the help used to sleep back when people kept servants. My room is about half the size of the smallest image I have seen on the internet. There is a dorm room fridge, a sink and a toilet. My toilet is electronic, so when I flush, it stalls for about 7 seconds before loudly announcing it’s function to anyone within earshot, which is everyone because my walls are as thin as the servants who lived here used to be. As if a frightening noise weren’t enough, it’s process is different from a traditional toilet that flushes into a sewer. I am not entirely sure about the exact logistics, but when you flush, it grinds whatever you did into everything else that’s ever been done. It doesn’t matter if you pee, poop or vomit, you will smell a lifetime's evidence of all these things. It’s like a little movie I would call “Shaw-Stank” Redemption, without the ass rape (although, the movie's not over yet). It’s basically a movie that goes on for 11 months and is set in the sewer Tim Robbin's character had to crawl out of, in the original movie, to know freedom (myself).
My toilet is right under my window, which is helpful to flush out the flush smell, depending on the temperature outside. My window faces into a bunch of other windows, of wealthier homes, which I have only recently discovered, has made me quite a spectacle to some old man’s grandsons. I got a formally written complaint asking me to get some curtains. I thought I was being discreet, but assumptions really do make an ass out of... and visible to obtrusive teenage boys. I avoided hanging blinds because my window is slanted with the roof, that tops my tiny little space. A hung curtain cuts off half of my room, unless I pin it and then the air flow is obstructed making bathroom time noxious, but hey, I’m in Paris and in my own, imaginary movie!
Like I said, the walls are thin (or athletic by today’s standards) and my other neighbors, who share my walls/ are poor, are also Asian- Vietnamese- I think... I’ve never been good with that sort of thing, but wanted to convey that I know a specific country over there. My neighbor is up late and when his girlfriend comes over at the end of her restaurant shift (I assume at a Chinese place),they catch up on their day- Of course- they haven’t seen each other all day! It is ridiculously loud and bounces out their open window, and off of the glass of the horny French kids and every other spectator’s window who can’t smell my toilet, but know it’s there. I wonder why their talking hasn’t gotten a complaint and my sloppily discreet wardrobe changes have. I thought about what complaining about them would sound like and I'm pretty sure it would sound racist. The thing about their native tongue, is that it’s a tonal language, so me making a noise complaint is like a hate crime. I hate that I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and they want to communicate. However, if I did voice a complaint, it would be a lot like being in America and complaining about my Mexican neighbors not speaking English to their 7 kids. “It’s really awful because I hear them and then I think it’s early May (Cinco de Mayo).” So I have ear plugs and one of those plants that dances when it hears noise, super hypnotic.
Poor Asians, so easy to pick on linguistically. My French friend and I were at a grocery store here and it was after the cut off time the store would sell alcohol. We got to the counter after some disgruntled party people, frustrated they couldn’t get some more beer into their expanding guts. I decided it would be fun to fuck with an already disgruntled clerk. We put our stuff on the counter and I leaned on the counter with the kind of swagger a handsome oil tycoon has in the movies when he approaches a cheap blonde at a bar. In French I say to the clerk “good evening, this [signaling the food] and [pausing for affect] one bottle of Smirnoff.” He humorlessly explains that they aren’t selling alcohol at this time, to which I throw my hands up in mock defensiveness, then respond in French “okay, okay [pausing again, for the same reasons] TWO bottles of Smirnoff.” He hears me and thinks that I am just a stupid person who can’t understand what he’s saying, but I clearly need booze, so he let’s me in on a little racist secret. In a French/ English combo he explains that there is a shop on the corner that sells alcohol late, then he clarifies (in French) “a Chinese man," as he says this, he takes his fingers and pulls his eyes apart. I know that he was just frustrated with my inability to understand, so instinctively did what he could to survive the communication jungle we were now hacking through. To let him know I clearly understood, I said “CHINESE!” and put my hands together over my head, making a triangle of my arms, mimicking a Chinese rice hat and started saying “ah ah ah ah thank you very much,” in the most offensively racist Chinese accent I could muster. My friend and I had a good laugh and were off with our food. We weren’t going to buy alcohol anyway, which is fine, because I wasn’t home and that’s the only place I would NEED to drink anyway.
My toilet is right under my window, which is helpful to flush out the flush smell, depending on the temperature outside. My window faces into a bunch of other windows, of wealthier homes, which I have only recently discovered, has made me quite a spectacle to some old man’s grandsons. I got a formally written complaint asking me to get some curtains. I thought I was being discreet, but assumptions really do make an ass out of... and visible to obtrusive teenage boys. I avoided hanging blinds because my window is slanted with the roof, that tops my tiny little space. A hung curtain cuts off half of my room, unless I pin it and then the air flow is obstructed making bathroom time noxious, but hey, I’m in Paris and in my own, imaginary movie!
Like I said, the walls are thin (or athletic by today’s standards) and my other neighbors, who share my walls/ are poor, are also Asian- Vietnamese- I think... I’ve never been good with that sort of thing, but wanted to convey that I know a specific country over there. My neighbor is up late and when his girlfriend comes over at the end of her restaurant shift (I assume at a Chinese place),they catch up on their day- Of course- they haven’t seen each other all day! It is ridiculously loud and bounces out their open window, and off of the glass of the horny French kids and every other spectator’s window who can’t smell my toilet, but know it’s there. I wonder why their talking hasn’t gotten a complaint and my sloppily discreet wardrobe changes have. I thought about what complaining about them would sound like and I'm pretty sure it would sound racist. The thing about their native tongue, is that it’s a tonal language, so me making a noise complaint is like a hate crime. I hate that I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and they want to communicate. However, if I did voice a complaint, it would be a lot like being in America and complaining about my Mexican neighbors not speaking English to their 7 kids. “It’s really awful because I hear them and then I think it’s early May (Cinco de Mayo).” So I have ear plugs and one of those plants that dances when it hears noise, super hypnotic.
Poor Asians, so easy to pick on linguistically. My French friend and I were at a grocery store here and it was after the cut off time the store would sell alcohol. We got to the counter after some disgruntled party people, frustrated they couldn’t get some more beer into their expanding guts. I decided it would be fun to fuck with an already disgruntled clerk. We put our stuff on the counter and I leaned on the counter with the kind of swagger a handsome oil tycoon has in the movies when he approaches a cheap blonde at a bar. In French I say to the clerk “good evening, this [signaling the food] and [pausing for affect] one bottle of Smirnoff.” He humorlessly explains that they aren’t selling alcohol at this time, to which I throw my hands up in mock defensiveness, then respond in French “okay, okay [pausing again, for the same reasons] TWO bottles of Smirnoff.” He hears me and thinks that I am just a stupid person who can’t understand what he’s saying, but I clearly need booze, so he let’s me in on a little racist secret. In a French/ English combo he explains that there is a shop on the corner that sells alcohol late, then he clarifies (in French) “a Chinese man," as he says this, he takes his fingers and pulls his eyes apart. I know that he was just frustrated with my inability to understand, so instinctively did what he could to survive the communication jungle we were now hacking through. To let him know I clearly understood, I said “CHINESE!” and put my hands together over my head, making a triangle of my arms, mimicking a Chinese rice hat and started saying “ah ah ah ah thank you very much,” in the most offensively racist Chinese accent I could muster. My friend and I had a good laugh and were off with our food. We weren’t going to buy alcohol anyway, which is fine, because I wasn’t home and that’s the only place I would NEED to drink anyway.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
New Coffee Shop, New Ways To Alienate Myself
I have found a new coffee shop. I have been here before, but now I am really here. It’s the only place in Paris to get a decent latte and that makes me happy to return. Also, there are a lot of attractive, english baristas. I am about 4 lattes away from meeting my soul mate and his name is going to be easy to pronounce (on my list).
After being stalked by some old French guy at my regular cafe, I decided it was time to switch it up. So, I didn’t write very much last week- what a shift! It wasn’t just that guy, the service started getting real slow with me, taking me for granted. I yelled that they were acting just like my LAST boyfriend. So, here I am, a new cafe that takes an hour to walk to, but has a patronage I wouldn’t mind stalking me and... good coffee/ comfy chairs. I met a young man today, from America. The barista mixed up our lattes and accidentally gave me his soy latte, but that started dialogue because I recognized him from yesterday, when another latte mishap occurred. It seemed he forgot all about it, but I didn’t and I reminded him of every detail, making me look like a very lonely woman. I don’t think he was mad at the service, but he is a young 23, so he probably doesn’t know when to get pissed off, like I do. Anyway, a new Facebook friend later, I am writing about knowing how to talk too much to strangers. The biggest part of growing up, is learning how to talk to strangers. I have to remind that little girl inside of me that it’s safe now, so lift up your shirt when you eat too much sugar- we’re in this together.
Before I could write a pivotal story, like the one I am writing now, I had to write a French comedian and apologize. I was referred to him by an American comedian, so I sent a friend request with a brief introduction. His profile picture was a thumbnail of a poster with him on the front, wearing a jester hat and a confident posture “yeah, I am comfy in this hat and maybe even a little tough, come see my show”. Comedians often times use show posters as profile pics, in America it’s like saying “I’m not here for validation- I’m an artist”. The French comedian wrote back with a sentence asking how I was. I was happy to hear back because I am eager to get on stage and thought he might be able to direct me to some open mics or something. I asked him about stage time here, assuming that there has to be something, but I don’t even know if they call it “stage time”, they might call it “a shower” or “muffin tray”. The next day (that’s today for all you history buffs), I am taking the metro to my new favorite coffee shop to cut out the hour long walk and hope that the new found 45 minutes will prove useful to the creative process. That’s when I see a large billboard in the metro station with this guy’s profile picture on it. So, the one connection I had, I may have completely alienated by asking about open mics. I should have asked him if he knew any solid street corners I could pan-handle at, I mean, we’re both artists, right?
At least I am going to a party tonight. The Facebook invite said 193 people are attending and 136 people are maybe attending. I am definitely in for a meaningful time. However 311 are not attending and the event is waiting for a reply from 2,046 people, so it’s possible that the music will be stupid and only lonely people will be there. What if I am spotted at the lamest party of the season, will people recognize me and refuse to be my friend in the future. It could be one of those parties where everybody looks at one another like the other is stupid for being there. What if that comedian is there and recognizes me and doesn’t like what I am wearing, but he’s wearing that fucking hat. I hope I pack a cool enough lunch and meet my soul mate or a chair. I love sitting down sometimes, especially with a good lunch.
After being stalked by some old French guy at my regular cafe, I decided it was time to switch it up. So, I didn’t write very much last week- what a shift! It wasn’t just that guy, the service started getting real slow with me, taking me for granted. I yelled that they were acting just like my LAST boyfriend. So, here I am, a new cafe that takes an hour to walk to, but has a patronage I wouldn’t mind stalking me and... good coffee/ comfy chairs. I met a young man today, from America. The barista mixed up our lattes and accidentally gave me his soy latte, but that started dialogue because I recognized him from yesterday, when another latte mishap occurred. It seemed he forgot all about it, but I didn’t and I reminded him of every detail, making me look like a very lonely woman. I don’t think he was mad at the service, but he is a young 23, so he probably doesn’t know when to get pissed off, like I do. Anyway, a new Facebook friend later, I am writing about knowing how to talk too much to strangers. The biggest part of growing up, is learning how to talk to strangers. I have to remind that little girl inside of me that it’s safe now, so lift up your shirt when you eat too much sugar- we’re in this together.
Before I could write a pivotal story, like the one I am writing now, I had to write a French comedian and apologize. I was referred to him by an American comedian, so I sent a friend request with a brief introduction. His profile picture was a thumbnail of a poster with him on the front, wearing a jester hat and a confident posture “yeah, I am comfy in this hat and maybe even a little tough, come see my show”. Comedians often times use show posters as profile pics, in America it’s like saying “I’m not here for validation- I’m an artist”. The French comedian wrote back with a sentence asking how I was. I was happy to hear back because I am eager to get on stage and thought he might be able to direct me to some open mics or something. I asked him about stage time here, assuming that there has to be something, but I don’t even know if they call it “stage time”, they might call it “a shower” or “muffin tray”. The next day (that’s today for all you history buffs), I am taking the metro to my new favorite coffee shop to cut out the hour long walk and hope that the new found 45 minutes will prove useful to the creative process. That’s when I see a large billboard in the metro station with this guy’s profile picture on it. So, the one connection I had, I may have completely alienated by asking about open mics. I should have asked him if he knew any solid street corners I could pan-handle at, I mean, we’re both artists, right?
At least I am going to a party tonight. The Facebook invite said 193 people are attending and 136 people are maybe attending. I am definitely in for a meaningful time. However 311 are not attending and the event is waiting for a reply from 2,046 people, so it’s possible that the music will be stupid and only lonely people will be there. What if I am spotted at the lamest party of the season, will people recognize me and refuse to be my friend in the future. It could be one of those parties where everybody looks at one another like the other is stupid for being there. What if that comedian is there and recognizes me and doesn’t like what I am wearing, but he’s wearing that fucking hat. I hope I pack a cool enough lunch and meet my soul mate or a chair. I love sitting down sometimes, especially with a good lunch.
Monday, May 23, 2011
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.
“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.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 16, 2011
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?
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?
Friday, May 13, 2011
'Pollack'tics
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)