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.