It's a lifestyle

My brief but valuable experiment as a hermit has come to an end. I managed to peel my half-melted worth from the sofa and gather up the crumbs of a careless pastime when food was too bountiful to completely consume. I conjured up all my strength to turn off the MTV Cribs marathon and retreated back into my room exhausted from the sudden bouts of movement. My own will power was not capable of doing what I have just described itself. No, by the force of embarrassing encounters did I then pry myself from my full commitment to living like a bum.

Earlier today, wrapped up in a blanket and unkempt, I was staring mindlessly into another among countless Cribs episodes. I could feel my brain melting into distortion more and more every time a celebrity said: “Now this is where the ‘magic’ happens.” My brain snapped back into form when I heard someone punch in the room code. Entered one of my roommates, her parents, grandparents, and siblings. All of whom I’m sure were just as surprised to see my fraggle rock self as I was to see them. Now, making small talk is not one of my strong points. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rather, I proceeded to watch Cribs with her grandparents looking on, trying to decipher the Hollywood narcissism. The judgment and confusion felt heavy enough to require some sort of distraction, one that I found in slurping on my soda in an effort to extract every last molecule.

Once they all shuffled out of the room, I knew my time was up. The past several days have been fantastically solitary, but nothing like that should last very long for risk of losing my sanity. I’m sure I was borderline maniacal. Yeah… Judging by the deep imprint I left on that sofa, I was pulled from the edge of madness just in time.

Moderation (in moderation)

I write this to you while laying in bed, in the dark. Just today, I have eaten—brace yourself—three bowls of cereal, a chocolate croissant, a package of animal crackers, two slices of pizza, two cup of noodles and another entire box of cereal. I excluded the beverages in order to maintain some sort of dignity. Irregardless (Mean Girls reference), one might have described my appetite as ravenous, but I just call it another day. Once I capped my calorie intake for tha day, I unbuttoned my jeans to release the chokehold on my filled belly. I thought it best before the strain breached the unforgiving woven threads of my sliming jeans. Ironic? Indeed!

Why haven't I found another

I was asked today if I was a baller. My steadfast reply was quite simply: Yes, yes I am a baller.

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.