Huzzah!

I am determined to carry on! Nothing but laziness can stop me. In the past it may have taken the best of me but no more, I say!

Now, as I was saying in my mind… Awkwardness fervently follows me everywhereeeee. Now, people have told me before that I inexplicably end up in these situations where the method of torture is uncontrollable awkwardness. I could not agree more! I came to this conclusion after witnessing a rare, inconceivably embarrassing incident in which I acted only as a spectator—for once. Last week after class my friend spoke of fatigue and hunger, both sufferings will inevitably lead to your sympathies. As we shuffled out of class trying to escape the mind numbing sensation, my friend turned the corner on an unusual substance which then caused her to slide down to the floor in a mere second without a clear memory of how she ended up there. ‘Twas TUNA SALAD! Yes, the food that has kept me half alive—I’m sure the high levels of mercury negate any benefits of protein intake—these past three years at college was the reason for my friend’s upright demise. She recovered quickly but the smears of the old, musty tuna on the right side of her body could not hide her shame. With our entire class behind us trying to comprehend the odds of slipping on tuna salad, I tried unsuccessfully to reassure my friend that no one had seen what had taken place and therefore, I assured her with such arrogant fallacy, by the laws of twisted physics it never happened. I repeat: IT. NEVER. HAPPENED.

Outrageous denial is how I live my life.

It's not me, it's you

BACK. IN. BUSINESS. Whaaaaaaaat?! Ok, soooo Paris is over ‘n done. The relationship naturally ran its course. We were both blissfully unaware of reality in the beginning. The flaws between us seemed transparent and whipped past us like the wind. As time aged, our interpretation of reality began to darken into an acrimonious prospect. All attempts of recovering what was appeared to be only an outpouring of desperate nostalgia despite the overwhelming sensation of a lost cause. Denial trod deep in the surface of happy memories, but time had broken the threshold of disillusionment. One more agonizing hour may have unleashed turmoil and unwelcome hatred. We parted with closure, content. Now with hindsight sharp enough to cut down any lingering doubts, I can fairly say that I love Paris but I think I love the U.S. more.

I've moved on!

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.