Lost in translation

I find myself gravitating more to the faint reminders of America (yes, America) scattered sparsely throughout Paris. Not only that but I suspect that I’m becoming more and more cynical with each Parisian I crash into—apparently, I have a higher threshold for pessimism than I thought. It’s to the point where I now make rampant generalizations and hurl offensive stereotypical remarks about the French. I mean, normally, yes I do send forth outrageous comments (only a few here and there!!) but now it’s outtaaaaa control! Impulsively, instinctually, unconsciously, involuntarily, I perpetuate all the hackneyed Parisian perceptions without shame. I don’t care! As I sit in Starbucks and realize how magical heat feels, I can’t help but conclude that perhaps the French REEK (…and they really do!) because their exceptionally inactive, contemptible professional careers transcend beyond their worthless 35-hour work week into their mundane bread-and-cheese-eating personal lives so much so that these unduly lethargic French fo—

Torture, I say!

I. Don’t. Understand. The children are back… Why?? I was wondering why the presence of the Barbie dolls and high chair persisted even after they left. Great, now I have to return to hearing the mother’s insatiable happiness and the troublemakers’ piercing screams which could shatter glass. I don’t blame them, though. If I had her as a grandmother persistently chasing me around, I would shriek for help and/or be one BITTER baby.

Flattery will get you NOWHERE!

OMG! Finallyyyyy! Ok, it took long enough but I was finally able to give a bountiful amount of sarcasm in French the other day. It was amazing! Normally, when I attempt to speak French, it sounds like I’m the stuttering kid in Billy Madison (click here!!!!!!). But this time, I was blessed with the perfect opportunity to flatter myself naturally with arrogance and conceit all because I gave what every indolent French worker audaciously demands: exact change. Don’t even get me started on how many eye rolls I’ve received because I didn’t have the suitable amount of centièmes. Whutevaaa, I’m not there to make your jobs easier, I’m just there to buy my chocolate and seltzer. Yeah, check that attitude and just give me my change so I can be on my way, ok. Ugh, I promised myself I wouldn’t get worked up about this. I digress... Basically, after seeing the price, I checked my wallet and proceeded to smile like I had omnipotent power over the entire French people, which I generally believe I do. So I looked directly at the squirrelly cashier, tossed him the change as if to say, “Here kid, go do something with your life,” but I did so with just enough attitude to imply that the €4,40 in centièmes wouldn’t carry him far, so, you know, he betta have a plan B. A vivacious hue swept over his face which then achingly crooked a smile, drawing attention to those neglected muscles. I made this man’s day because the prospect of doing minimal work for the French is like Christmas morning. “C’est parfait! Ohhhhh formidable,” he squealed. I returned his excitement with a nonchalant wave of the hand and immodestly said, “Ouais, c’est parfait à cause de moi.” I reassured him that while his compliments of me were well deserved, they weren’t anything I didn’t already know. I walked away with the glimpse of him physically stunned by my abrupt egotistical character.

I’m conceited, I got a reason!

I just got SCHOOLED!!

My pride is wounded!!! DANGGGG! Ok, I don’t know how to properly and accurately put this but… My professor today betttttttch slapped me with his WORDS! There, ok I said it. Gahhhh! It happened. And all I could do was stand there and take it like—not like a man—but like a crackhead at an intervention with some sprinklings around his mouth! The crackhead can’t say ishhhhh in defense!

My professor, who I would describe as sinister-looking with a crooked smile and jagged, lifeless teeth, believed it to be true that I had asked him to meet 15 minutes before class to look over my powerpoint. I had, in fact, asked him to quickly look over my presentation right before class; no specific time given ‘cuz that’s just how I roll. As soon as I arrived to my class (on-time, mind you), my professor’s yellow glazed eye slithered its gaze around to the front of the room. He then villainously descended upon his prey—me. What proceeded entirely, remains a blur, for good reasons. Guy, le prénom de mon professeur (fo’ reals!), spoke of irresponsibility, shame, and anger. A lot of anger. Now, at first I tried to correct his misunderstanding in the hope that he would see his wrongdoings. Yeah, that turned out to be a mistake. Les Français ne bougent jamais! After my presentation, Guy let looooooose his reign of intellectual arrogance upon my vulnerable position at the head of the class. My pronunciation errors, which extended to the faint sound of the letter “d” at the end of a word, seemed criminal to him. Projecting to the class, he escalated my faults—only mine, ignoring my partner’s—by declaring it nearly impossible to utter such offensively incorrect French. Until I, he seethed, lowered the bar of grammatical standards.

Yeahhhhh it burned. Guy: 1. Me: 0. Until next week, old man!

UGH! Youth...

Sooo for the past week my nemesis revitalized two-fold her duties as a mother with the gracious accommodation of her grandchildren. Oh, she LOVED every second of it. Consequentially, I despised it all. I never once saw these hooligans—but I certainly heard them. Starting 8AM, I could hear a stampede approaching the kitchen with shrilling laughter that verged on the brink of deathly cries. Bringing up the rear, the mother chuckled at, I’m sure, “the gift of a child’s laughter.” Bah! Children are nothing but greedy, ok. They stole my sleep, my sanity, AND my happiness. I say, mélangez some applesauce and a splash of Benadryl; stuff them full and be on your way. If that’s not responsible parenting, then I don’t know what is.

Where yo boss at??

I have nothing to blog about. My mom always told me, if you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all. If I had followed that advice when it was given, I would be a mute child. However, I’ll make an exception this time.

But let’s get one thing straight. I’m a boss! And don’t forget it.

Survival of the fittest

This past weekend was all about the extremity. I mean, HOT DANG it was intense! It began early Friday morning past, when I thought Karma had hit its threshold and pondered the idea of correcting my foregoing reprehensible behavior. The flight to Salzburg confronted death head on in its miniature aircraft equipped with propellers, not jets. While my roommate KC slept undisturbed—surprisingly, without the help of tranquilizers—Abby and I weathered, quite literally, through the storm. If I were capable of crying, the tears would have been streaming down my fear-stricken face. I contemplated escape plans in hopes of ensuring a higher chance of survival. I questioned my coat’s potential with a lunatic eye: Could this act as a parachute if need be? As we embarked on our descent through the tempestuous clouds, I knew it would require a fight in which Nature wouldn’t play fair. A fight, it was indeed; one that left me physically ill and mentally disturbed. I walked off that plane, legs shaking against my confounded will. How I survived, I cannot say. I feel like I gained years of wisdom on that flight—perhaps because the stress aged me twenty years.

The extreme theme continued when Abby and KC tricked Anne and me into climbing up a mountain to see a fortress. Yes, a fortress. Instead of taking the funicular (that would have been too easy), we dragged ourselves up an icy, treacherous mountain in the name of tourism. Unprepared for climbing mountains, Anne and I wobbled our way up all the while cursing the likelihood of crashing to the icy ground which would then lead us to slip down the mountain. Perilous, I say!

We ventured on… The Sound of Music bus tour followed. It may not seem so extreme after a few near-death encounters, but let me correct you. FOUR hours of singing musical numbers, including miserable imitations of Julie Andrews' voice, could be nothing but extreme! The campy bus with a Sound of Music drawing plastered all around it treaded through Salzburg and up into the mountains while our tour guide, Trudy, squeaked corny-ass jokes and Sound of Music trivia. It was everything I hate most in the world, all trapped into one seemingly small bus. EXTREME!

The hills are aaaaalive

Blahhhh… I just ate an entire box of cereal in under two hours. I rested a huge bowl filled to the rim below my chin so as to limit the distance my spoon had to travel to my mouth. I kept the cereal box in proximity in order to persuade numerous refills. What is wrong with me?! ...Rhetorical question. Damn Special Form for being so deliciously addictive!!! Now, Special Form is the poor man’s Special K, but I didn’t seem to care. I’m not broke (yet) but it befits my lifestyle so well that I can’t object to the label. When someone accuses me of being cheap, all I can do is shrug my shoulders in unconcerned accordance. Why argue with the truth?

But my cheap-ass will be traveling to SALZBURG, AUSTRIA tomorrow!!!! Yeah, that’s right, where The Sound of Music was filmed. Control your jealousy, fools! It’s gonna be badass!!

Tales to be told

OMG! I have sooooooo much to explain!! To do so, a series of disjointed anecdotes will recount the important events of the past several days…

Ok, Portugal. Not only was the weather amazing, but the universe also graciously gave me the opportunity to DENY some kid’s game. Yeahhhh it was just the kind of vacation I needed. This kid—though, I shouldn’t say “kid” since he was 26—was wuuuurkinnnn it hard! Which gave me all the more satisfaction shutting that down!! I was like, Not today, son!

Back in Paris, I saw the most incredible visual polarity on Rue Notre Dame des Champs—also known as my hood, holla! While walking to my favorite hot spot (the discount grocery store), I heard an unfamiliar buzzing noise that became more and more thunderous with each step. Veiled in a cold sweat, I searched feverishly for the echoing sound in every shadowy crevice. Finally, my eyes caught sight of swerving orange blob off in the distance. As the shape skidded closer, the reality of this sight began to focus. The vibrating hum came from an elderly, half-melted woman cruising at top speed in her electric wheelchair. Precariously navigating the road, she harshly puffed on a cigarette with one gnarled hand and controlled the wheelchair with the other. A fluorescent orange flag attached to the back of her chair thrashed at full mast while she hacked up a previous life in between her slow exhalations of nicotine. I stopped my stride to acknowledge the rarity of such a sight. I almost pulled out my camera but then I thought, “Nah I don’t want to be one of those people…”

It’s official. I have a new favorite neighborhood hobo!!!! Finally. My previous fave just couldn’t keep up with the competition. This hobo is spectacular, he shames all the other bums. KC abruptly pointed him out to me while walking home from class the other day. He must of found enough change on the streets because he was sitting at a café, making everyone around him uneasy. Prolonging his chance to blend in with the rest of society, he smoked a cigarette with great leisure calling attention to the drunken arrogance of his cross-legged posture. His lanky build prompted his knobby limbs to stick out into the street, wherein I noticed that one of his dirty socks didn't have a slipper covering it like the other. But this didn’t prohibit him from enjoying his wine-induced hazy life. No, he mumbled a few words in a caroling voice and elegantly waved to passersby while swaying back and forth in his chair. Before we passed him, he let out a jolly, delirious laugh and flicked his cigarette in such a grandiose manner. He was the only one in on the joke but he continued on. Yeah, he’s a classy one.

Great expectations

Please read/act out the following sentence like you’re a professional Oprah impersonator: I’m going to PORTUGAAAALLLLLLLL!!!!!!! Yeah, eff this cold weather! I’m heading to a country with some agreeably lukewarm weather, holla! My expectations are possibly unreasonable but I anticipate that every guy under the age of 30 will be looking fiiiiiiiiine. I only hope my dreams won’t be crushed…

Oh I forgot to mention this earlier but I (temporarily) broke my bed. Who knew jumping on it like a immature little girl would have such consequences?? Following my third or forth victory jump, I heard a fracturing noise beneath my feet. I gave it a few more jumps before deciding to quit in fear of collapsing the bed’s foundation. But it seemed that at 4am my bed had all it could take. A pulsating crash broke the silence of the night, plummeting my motionless body the length of a few inches. And what’s worse, it disturbed my sleep. I laid there, eyes thrown up and breathing densely, trying to piece together why I was sinking into a vortex-like dent in my mattress. The next morning I chose to omit this vital detail to my host mother when she asked how I was doing. I thought it was for the best. When she thought I broke her washing machine, we didn’t hear that deafening spin cycle sound for a month! I can’t go that long without a bed, ok. That’s ridiculous.

Panty raid!!!!!!!!

Something occurred chez Pottier that was of the most alarming nature. I’m not sure what to make of it. The other day my host sister approached me, dangling on her finger a pair of used-and-abused women’s underwear. She asked me if they belonged to me. Horrified that she thought I had such ill taste in underwear, I gave a determined, Noooooo. Continuing on, she then asked her mother—and considering the out-dated style of the underwear, well it made sense to me. However that wasn’t the case. KC dismissed them at first sight; she said she had a pair similar to them in the eighth grade from Old Navy and feared for a second that they had come back to haunt her, HA! So, using scientific deduction, I concluded that if the underwear did not belong to any of the women living in the house in which they were found then… Perhaps… Someone had a female guest over! Scandalous. But who would bring home the kind of girl who then leaves her underwear lying around where Mother Mary statues could see them, judge them?! Yes, I’m afraid that I have to again impose all judgment on the 32 year-old son. He’s too much of an anomaly to suppose anyone else in the house holds responsibility! But could it be that the adult son, who if one ignores his physical appearance could mistake him for an infant child, is popular with the ladies??? A disturbing thought indeed.

Following the emergence of this upsetting possibility, I found myself alone in the kitchen with him for a brief but altering minute. He was standing behind me, silently waiting for me to move. Rather than verbalize like an adult, he chose to stare at me with such severity that I could feel his numbing glare. I turned around, jolting him back into reality a little too soon. I guess he couldn’t grab his voice in time because in response he whispered in an incredibly unbefitting Fabio-esque voice: Paaarrrdon. Realizing his secured merit of embarrassment, he scurried past me quickly enough to miss my judgment-inflicted reaction. My head jerked down as if the awkwardness had hit me on the top of my head; my eyebrows broke unison due to a range of emotion, one raised in shock, the other frowned in confusion; my mouth simultaneously dropped open and remained agape until I was ready to articulate myself, which required several seconds to let out a flailing: Whhhaaaat. Just. Happened?? Oh yes, this adult-child is awkward—far beyond my own degree of awkwardness. He’s on a whole ‘nothaaaa level! It’s just so comforting to know that there’s someone out there FAR more awkward than yourself. Yeahhhh…

I can sleep easy tonight.

I got 99 problems...

Soooo I feel like one of those lame, acne-plagued dweebs from high school that obsesses over the popular kids in an impossible attempt to move up in the social food chain.

…Explanation is necessary since I was speaking in figurative terms; my skin is flawless, ok. Now, I, like the Good Samaritan I am, gave alllllll my marketing notes to a girl, who did not appear to be of the untrustworthy nature, for her to copy. This occurred two weeks ago. Do I have my notes?? NOPE. This betch skipped the last class and left me sitting in an effin French class for three hours. Ohhh the hatred was brewing! With each minute filled with mounting confusion due to the speed of the professor’s lecture and the absence of my notes, I aged into a cynical, petulant being. My exact thoughts after I realized she wasn’t coming lashed out: “This betch isn’t coming, is she? Mothaaaa…. She betta be dying!” However after a few hours of cursing this girl’s existence, I began to overlook this presage and gave her the benefit of the doubt—perhaps she really was dying, in which case I began to worry if it took a turn for the worse how I would ever get my notes back. Selfish thoughts aside, over the course of the next few days, I sent her emails, facebook messages, texts, and even called her. Now, to those who know me, I did in fact voluntarily pick up my phone with the intention of communicating with a human being. That’s a testament to how desperate I felt. Either she was ignoring me or she was dead—for even a deathly ill person would have texted me! But I REFUSE to be ignored. So after more emails and texts, the girl finally sent me a facebook message. She casually mentioned that she’s in Lyon until Sunday (betch!) and that she’s sorry for the inconvenience but I shouldn’t worry. Ummm, don’t tell me how to feel, ho! Betches cannot be trusted, ok!

That was the last good deed I do pro bono. It’s society’s loss now, fools.

Random observation that must be shared

A forgotten pair of boxers continues to boldly proclaim its existence on the drying rack. Now in normal circumstances this would be none of my business, but this is no normality considering the drying rack conveniently hangs above the shower. The sight of these recklessly positioned boxers twisted around the rack creates great discomfort. And its brightly patterned appearance does little to relieve the uneasiness. I’m not sure to whom they belong, but I am forced to place judgment on the eldest son. For who else would allow their underwear to remain hanging above the shower for so long?? A 32 year-old man still living at home with no knowledge of personal hygiene, that’s who.

Tangent: I just finished drinking my discount soda. Instead of a Coca Cola Light, I slurped down a Cola Light. What the absence of the word “Coca” entails, I know not. It tasted the same but I’m sure there’s some kind of deadly chemical involved. Why did I drink it then? Because I’m a risk taker, that’s why. But also because I’m too cheap to buy the authentic brand.

Regaining consciousness

Now that my buzz has worn off, I can safely get this blogging started. I make a personal choice not to blog while intoxicated, since completely sober I sound like a torrential douche I’d rather not subject you to my uncontrollable thoughts. Speaking of judgment impaired states… I straggled into my place at the crack of dawn today after a night of drinking cheap beer and unencumbered dancing, consequential of the beer. I made it in bed before my curfew of 6am, which I self-imposed. Everyone needs limits, right? My stomach, as if taking it upon itself to act as a self-righteous alarm clock, awoke me at 2:30pm that same day. I am not one to deny my stomach food, so I stammered into the kitchen with my hood on and look of death shining through my mascara-smudged eyes. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but it certainly wasn’t my worst—and that’s what counts! Of course my nemesis, the host mother, was there to witness my vampire-like reaction to my first glimpse of daylight. She giggled like a little girl at the sight of me, chuckling, “Ohhhhh my, you look tired. Someone had a long night.” Yes, woman, I look tired because I am tired… Dumbass. I kept this thought to myself, though I’m sure my daggered glares conveyed plenty. I think the mother is afraid of me. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I have GREAT taste

Uhhhhh… I’m just having one of those crazy misanthropic days, yo. I haven’t completely committed to the conviction of detesting humankind yet but I fear that day is near. My black heart is exponentially solidifying with each fool—FOOL, I say!!!—that I encounter. Reoccurrence is the worst. If only it was socially acceptable to blurt out to my pseudo-friends, “frenemies,” if you will, that the time passed with them was more like pioneering an invention that slows down time. Like I’ve said before, I don’t like wasting my time, especially if that time is spent with personally disagreeable people. Analogously speaking, some people say that they’re picky eaters. But more specifically, I’m referring to the absurd people who call themselves “Foodies,” because once you've tasted the foie gras at Le Chiberta, you can’t just eat any dead bird slapped in front of you. No, Foodies are selective and extremely critical; they accept nothing but the best. When it comes to people, I am the same way! Why settle, even when it comes to friendship?? I’m very particular with whom I like to converse. Reason being? In the name of the L’Oreal slogan: Because I’m Worth It. You know I am, and I know I am. So, if I give you even a second glance, be grateful because that’s more than most will ever get.

In other news, I survived my first exam in Paris. And by survived, I mean that I came out of it wounded and possibly scarred. Maybe not mentally traumatized but definitely close enough to recount the story in a coarse voice years down the road to unwilling participants. Until then, it’s just another day’s work. I’m just trying to put food on the table, metaphorically speaking of course since I don’t own a table.

A Change is Gonna Come

It’s not very often that one witnesses such a defining moment in history and recognizes in present its impact on the world’s future. But today is one of those days. I feel proud to have been apart of it—not only to have seen the headlines: “Obama Wins,” but to have exercised my right as a citizen even at an ocean’s length away. When the past eight years have felt more like a lifetime, Hope now carries a sense of desperation for a few more breaths of air during these stifling times. Finally, change is here.

“It’s the answer that led those who’ve been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.” –Barack Obama, the next President of the U.S.

Back to reality

Well, my good fortune has shriveled up like an old woman in the sun. My host family returns from vacation tomorrow, sighhhhhhh. I knew the freedom wouldn’t—nay, couldn’t!—last, but the asphyxiating affections return TOO soon. There’s still much to be done. I have yet to throw an impromptu house party or devise a devious plan to shock and horrify the mother upon her return. I don’t like to be rushed with such stratagems; a negligent act of retaliation never satisfies the impulse. You have to go alllllll out. But where was I going with this? Oh ya, so by tomorrow morning the mother will be chirping “Cou Couuuuu” and reoccupying the kitchen like it’s her slice of heaven. The 32 year-old son who still lives at home (fo’ reals) returned yesterday… He’s one dedicated (and old) student! When I saw him sulk into the bathroom this morning with his unkempt hair and oversized glasses, I let out a deep sigh acknowledging the beginning of another round of uncomfortable living. Oddly enough, he seems to have corresponded his sleeping schedule with mine; every morning I see him in the same pitiful, drowsy state with his pjs hanging from his skulking body. Whether it’s 7am or 11am, I awake to the sight of him chugging down some OJ in the kitchen with some insane bed-head hair. It’s a sight to been seen! Although I would have to say that seeing him wish his mother une bonne journée before leaving the house to go to class with his backpack securely strapped to his back is what really makes my day.

Viewer discretion is advised

My mother told me that my blog was depressing and that she has intentions of staging an intervention to encourage more positive thinking. So, I will attempt for the first time to write about “happy feelings,” which I am completely capable of doing……..

I saw this baby in a stroller yesterday and it, er I mean, he was SOOOO adorable. I looked right past the uncontrollable drooling and into his big beautiful eyes, and a single tear fell down my cheek. I couldn’t help it. Children are our fu— HAHA! Je blague, Maman. Tu me connais. La vie est amusante, pourquoi pas rire? Je t’aime.

Now on to the good stuff… So, last night my host sister invited KC and me to meet her American friend, who stayed with them a few years ago. Hmmm how can I put this without sounding negative? He was of the sort to ineffectively exert an enormous effort to present a “cool” façade. He is what one—not I—might call a “Loser.” That night was definitely a self-confidence booster—for me, of course! After he randomly declared: “I actually love the South.” I knew something was amiss, for no one from Connecticut confesses that kind of opinion, no one. Following that foolishness, I reacted with a judgmental side-glance, taking into account his lack of style which included a pair of mud-stained running sneakers and a prepubescent ‘tache. Need I say more? Well I will regardless. When the question of sports arose, he eagerly volunteered to tell us that he was on the swim team in high school. Later, he sheepishly owned up to the fact that it was for less than a month. Typical. But in retrospect, I realized that he was just a kid with bad game trying to work the room. Well, he gets an A for effort.

The value of personal hygiene

I dropped the cap to my makeup in the family’s bidet this morning. Ughhhhh. I scrubbed the cap frantically hoping to erase the scarring memory but it was to no avail. Forgive me but I’m just not comfortable with the existence an apparatus that sole purpose is to clean a person’s butt. It’s weird, ok. I know I’m being culturally insensitive but is showering THAT inconvenient for the French?? Each time I wash my hands in the sink that is dangerously close to the bidet, I see it out of the corner of my eye and I wonder, “Does this family really use this thing?” Some things are best left unknown.

When I returned from buying junk food, in preparation for eating my feelings, I saw a disfigured shadow repeating strange whimpers and hobbling through the house. Surprisingly, I was unfazed. You see, at chez Pottiers this is a common occurrence. An 87-year-old woman lives on the fourth floor above me. Ironically, she can barely walk and there’s no elevator. Since this is Paris, of course she has a hunchback—Quasimodo style. The effects to her spine as a result of the hunchback have completely deformed her neck. It looks as though her head became too heavy for her neck and one day it just slouched over and hasn’t moved since. She walks with a heavy limp and at a turtle’s pace. I passed her on the streets the other day, and by passed I mean I completely ignored her like it was high school and I was the betchy girl and she was the kid with the weird smell but redeeming personality. When I first saw the old bitty, I was PISSED! I don’t know to make small talk with someone who can’t turn her neck. Like, what do you say to that?? Luckily she is at an age where each day she gets shorter and shorter; so with the combination of her immobile neck and shrinking height, I was able to walk right past her without her even realizing it. Amazing, I know! I can’t believe I was so lucky. What a great way to avoid awkward situations—for me, not for her...

Like a boy

Ummmmm… How can I put into words the events of this past weekend?? I’ll put it this way, my walk of shame stretched 650 miles, from Prague to Paris. Hot dang it was fun! I took a stand for all women this weekend by objectifying the men. If nasty-ass construction workers can hurl shameless comments at women, why can’t I degrade men in the same manner? Since it is socially acceptable for a guy to visually violate me, then it’s only fair that I return the compliment to the male population by intensely staring them down while jeering, “Nice ass baby!” I’d say that’s one step closer to equality, ladies!

Due to the unexpected below freezing temperature (screw weather.com!), I wore every article of clothing that I brought at once. It may have cramped my “style,” but on the plus side it reduced the chances of theft. It also definitely made deciding what to wear going out easy. If I wasn’t feeling one shirt I could have just taken it off and had an entirely new outfit. Who could complain?? Despite the cold, Prague didn’t disappoint. Looking back, I think the highlight of my trip was walking around at night with my hood on and chilled beer in hand. It just felt right.

Something everyone can relate to

Tomorrow morning I’ll be crossing borders as I head to Prague (holla!). This weekend isn’t just about sightseeing; it’s also about challenging myself to see how long I can bear to look a HOT mess. Some people say, “Work it out” but I, in accordance with my style, say, “Bum it out.” I have self-diagnosed my look as hobo-chic… Sans the chic part. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, right??? The first step is a doozy. But if MK can make it stylish, why can’t I? Some days I get dressed in the dark and some days I don’t. At least I make an effort. I could roll out of bed and go to class with my crooked glasses and untamed hair. But even I know, boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Remember that kids.

Self-awareness is all the resolution I need. Yes, my awkwardness has led me to reference a rap song during a panel interview and to sit on someone in the dark during an initiation and to spend Valentine’s Day at a pink and red table with a giant ice sculpture of a heart. But those kinds of the things happen to everyone…

I only hope that Prague can handle alllll of *this* because not many countries can. I struggled for weeks with the prospect that Paris “cured” my awkwardness. That is until a few days ago when it all came rushing back with such a force that even I was taken aback. That day was filled with uncomfortable encounters and unusual sounds dispersed in between my words inflicting warranted, and familiar, confusion. It was a bittersweet homecoming.

Vanity or aesthetic sensitivity?

I would consider myself a mean person--many of my character references would agree. I love Paris because it offers a right of passage for all women to be mean. I, of course, have taken full advantage of this (how could I not??). It's out of necessity, really. This city is over infested with creepers who possess a disproportionate amount of self-confidence. One would think that a stern "No" and one particular finger would kill their game. Quite the opposite. It takes a lot of special words before they get the hint. If that's not determination, then I don't know what is. The fact that they think they have a shot with me is what really perplexes me. Greasy drunkards do not interest me. Time is money so don't waste my time. NEXT!!!!

My struggle for justice

Only in Paris, the city of romance, can two twelve year-olds holding hands piss me off.  I wanted to trip them... Fools!  No matter, I have bigger problems.  This morning, my arch nemesis--AKA my host mother--asked what day would be best to have the room vacuumed.  I pointed at the condition of the room and said, "Well definitely not today."  I figured one would need to see the floor in order to vacuum it.  Now I am not deceived by all of her Jesus shrines and motherly affections.  No, I knew by the tightness of her high-waisted capris that she is only days away from cracking.  So after I returned from taking care of some bizzzzness, there she was, holding a vacuum straight out of the 80's.  She then proceeded to tell me that she cleaned up my room--but only "un petit peu"--so that she could vacuum.  HMMMM... Interesting.  Like I said, DAYS away.

My bed is now a display of all my belongings.  I prefer the floor.

What they don't teach you in school!

Heyyy this is my second post!  I'm kinda a big deal, ok.  I don't normally commit to anything for this long, so just recognize how privileged you are to read such a literary masterpiece.  I'm doing this for selfless reasons, really.  I feel the need to share my story, my struggles, and my perseverance with the world.  I only hope that I can help people and make the world a better place with my experiences abroad.  And to kick this suckaaa off, it's important I explain the French language and all its glory...

To describe my struggles with the French language would require audiovisual reenactment to capture the series of emotion, which many times manifest themselves in incoherent babble.  The initial trauma of being asked a question in a foreign language sets off the uncontrollable chain reaction of sounding like a fool.  I almost always follow the presented question with a looooong uncomfortable pause, during which I try to figure out why the person is using such fancy words and syntax.  In defeat, I normally rely on the French word I use the most: Comment.  At this point, the person settles on two possibilities: either I am an idiot or I am American (how they are so accurate with this perception is beyond me... Maybe it's my "hyyyyper cool" style).  At any rate, the person will repose their question in a simpler, dumbed-down way.  Sometimes they will ask the question in English, signaling a complete loss of hope for my French abilities.  I don't protest it.  However, if I can understand the question, I proceed with multiple uncomfortable sounds, hoping to casually buy some time to think.  To those who know me, you know my, um let's call them mannerisms, can last perhaps too long.  These hesitations are prolonged enough to merit a sympathy-professed head nod.  In cases such as these, I resort to the all-powerful phrase for a quick exit: Je ne sais pas.  It never fails.

French 101: How to quickly kill a conversation and get the efffff out of there.  Lesson learned.

Rien ne faire sauf...

Ok so I'm starting late in the game, but I've always considered myself a late bloomer.  I'm still waiting for my awkward phase to pass, uhhh uhhhhhh.  But I digress, it's already October 20th and I have yet to do anything really fulfilling, again story of my life.  I don't even try to reason my excessive procrastination anymore.  I have come to accept it for what it is: shameless inactivity!  Now that I'm acclimated to the Parisian lifestyle, I've turned my attention to the smaller details: avoiding the shaaaat!  You know what I'm talking about.  What I'm about to write, I mean in the most literal way... Paris is shitty.  It's like an effin minefield in 'Nam.  I can't just carelessly stroll the streets of Paris unless I want to leave a trail of questionable skidmarks.  Forget the concern of getting mugged, no, my concern is bypassing all the shat on the streets.  It's to the extreme that when I see a small pool of liquid on the streets, I wonder... Is that piss?? I saw a man peeing in the metro station the other day.  I was HORRIFIED once I realized what I was looking at, in part because I was staring at a bum peeing on a wall for so long.  But people were just walking past him like it was just another hobo perpetuating the obligatory STANK of the metro.  They refused to acknowledge it because they know that the metro will always smell like ass no matter what.  I feel dirty after riding the metro.

I'm just trying to stay clean.  So fresh 'n so clean.