Uninteresting

So I’d love to dish out a lengthy abroad update brimming with newfound sophistication, budget-savvy travel recommendations, provocative cultural comparisons, aix-istential musings, and whatnot. It pains me not at all to say that, considering I do absolutely less than nothing with my life on a day-to-day basis, an update of sorts is, as precedent would undoubtedly convey, laughable.

This week I had to make up a “midterm” that I had the misfortune of missing during my turbulent period of poor health. My “professor” asked that I show up at “school” at 11 in the morning to sit the exam. In order to make myself presentable by the crack of dawn as was cruelly demanded of me, I had to prepare myself by going to sleep very early the night before.

Going to sleep very early the night before in this context means that I didn’t open a tab and made it home before stores opened for regular business hours.

Slight sidetrack. Anyways, when walking to school the next day, poised and bright eyed comme toujours, something felt a little off about the light of day itself.  The reason for my feeling ill at ease, perturbed, if you will, strutting my way to “campus”, was due to the positioning of the sun. The world looks different in the middle of the morning and I had completely forgotten. Desolee. But hardly.

As an aside, I want to emphasize how absolutely difficile and a nightmare and a half it is to walk on cobblestone in heels. In Frog, heels are called talons, and to be honest they are literally the talons of Satan on a rough night out. One has not seen a stumble until witnessing a Tuesday night “stroll” on cobblestone. A little jaunt, if you will. SO QUAINT AND EURO.

However, I still insist upon wearing those bad boys every single fois I sort.

As an aside to the side that I have just made I should also mention that daytime marche-ing on cobblestone is also difficult. Particularly when I have my headphones in and am attempting to step/swag in time to the music, typically rap (or country, depending on how sorry I feel for myself at the time/if I'm wearing loose-fitted clothing which is for the most part, a rare occasion). ANYWAYS the walk ends up looking like kind of an uphill struggle waddle, SO enticing. And since I am in fine physical form there is usually a kind of panting associated with the walk, even more appetisante. 

Alas, it is, in fact, a Saturday night and due to the tiresome nature of the past week, what with the rigorous pursuit of academic excellence, intense endurance training/exploration of local mountains, resume padding, future planning, and the like, I am terribly exhausted. So now it’s just me, Greg House, and, by consequence, a lingering and currently heightened paranoia of contracting a foreign illness that does not adequately respond to Western medicine. All in all, today has been quite the casual affair. Currently contemplating a way to sneak around in the dark, unnoticed, and make my way to the kitchen, acquire the Nutella, and hold her captive till tomorrow. How very Entrapment of me.

It is currently only 11:45 pm. Or, as they say in France, 23h45.  Apparement, this is not only the land of flavorful biscuits but also the land of pretending to be in the military, all the time. Literally. For some godforsaken reason military time is not only used but also spoken out loud. I have yet, in my soon to be 21 years, (4 months from tomorrow, time doesn’t fly when you’re underage) to encounter a more useless lifestyle choice. Why yes, I would love to have my eyebrows waxed at 17:45. Let me just whip out my calculator and figure out what in god’s name you mean. Merci, bye.

TFlorenceM- ing this weekend with Lizzie Langs. Alex Dennett too.

In preparation for our reunion/the cult of Lilly koozies (minus MP/RP), I’ll close with a little proverb of the ages.

If you're not FaF, I DGaF. 

See, despite some evidence to the contrary, I haven't forgotten what's up.

Oh sorry is that rude,

Margarita 

Femme (dans une condition) Fatale

 In the most horrific and terrible twist of fate I am bedridden with some kind of exotic illness and unable to attend Sensation White in Belgium. If anybody is even reading this I would urge that person to call up some kind of hotline on my behalf. Oh and just to add insult to injury my exquisite French phone has just envoyed me a message (say it like MASSAGE,) stating that my credit has been depleted, what with  .14 cents remaining. Mother of all ironies what have me and my phone credit been reduced to.

Anyways I literally haven’t gotten dressed in 24 hours. I have been literally sitting in bed eating crepes drenched with tears and wondering if anyone has ever felt as sorry for themselves as I currently do. Through my impossibly tangled headphones the most somber of all playlists blares. I am literally wondering as to when my next encounter with another human being will be, eagerly anticipating the site of a friendly, familiar face.

Disclaimer, my emphasis of “literally” means quite the opposite: theatrical exaggeration, self pity, and creation of drama are, when sullen, my only extracurricular activities so please, for those of you who are not aware of the full of extent of my ability to stretch the truth, please read as follows:

“exotic illness”--  “a cold of low to medium severity”,

“I haven’t gotten dressed in 24 hours”—“I haven’t applied mascara since yesterday”

“Crepes drenched with tears”—“Crepes saturated with Nutella, powdered sugar, and fuck, a slice of apple pie on the side too”

“the most somber of playlists”—contemplating whether I should pre-order the regular or Deluxe version of the new Britney album (March 29^th come sooner please) while simultaneously deciding which of the recently released singles I prefer.

The bit about human encounters- Getting ready to leave my house and go book a hotel room for an important celeb who is going to be in Aix THIS FRIDAY—DADDY T taking a break from work and hanging out with me in Provence!! Also he has agreed to have dinner with me Hannie and the ho-mo… I will have to devote an entire novel to that meal good gott in himmel. 

Regardless, my life is literally like a music video to the Dark Side of Indoor Track Meets right about now. The house is abandoned. House here roughly means une espace approximately the size of a master bathroom we don’t exactly live in any kind of luxury. Ho-mo is off cooking quiche in the Alps, while Sophie our 38 year old host sister alias SoSo (for whom our dependable, supersonic, and ever-reliable wireless internet, SoSo13, is named) is most likely painting landscapes and quietly crying herself to sleep about not being married.

This is undoubtedly one of the most depressing experiences,  so depressing in fact that the heavens have clouded over in sympathy avec moi. I can not even explain. I am attempting to drown out the sound of birds and children with Britney’s divine voice, attempting to erase the fact that there is human life outside my drawn shades and locked shutters. Lots of throat lozenges and mind-numbing Macbook activity to take my mind of the fact that everyone I know and care about is currently in Belgium raging without me. I knew this “schoolwork” would eventually contribute to the depression of my typically phenomenally functioning immune system. Jesus.

Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m really such a lady. It’s just that there is nobody even in Aix right now and I am really rather miserable, especially what with the ciel being so nuageux right about now, I am getting sunshine deficiency. Or that might just be the sobriety speaking. JUST.KIDDING.

don’t hold it against me,

M

As an aside, to one of my closest and first friends at Tufts (Milla1), Ben, Bborn, I love you so much and I am so thankful everything is okay. I am thinking of you always and I miss you so much. 

No Money Mo Problems

So the thought of abroad ending at some point in time literally sends me into an absolute panic-induced frenzy. I am spastically attempting to piece together a summer of substance and not just substances but I feel as though that is becoming exceedingly difficult on account of me currently being incapable of having intelligible thoughts or function. Just kidding. Except not at all. Let's not discuss this anymore.

This weekend Annie visited HEY GIRL you little Francophile you. In fact I found myself very surprised that someone who despises baguetteland to such an extreme would visit, and yet here I was showing her around our Aixciting little town. Shocking. And, even more shocking, I believe a return trip has or will be scheduled in the very near future. I just came to say HELLO and OH WAIT I’M COMING BACK BECAUSE I JUST COULDN’T GET ENOUGH. Oh how far we’ve come since the fond days of Tufts in Talloires managed to slash a good thirty years off my life span. (RIP my dignity you are sorely missed). Desolee I got sidetracked I forgot to mention that Annie is, in fact, allergique to France. Actually an amusing side side track, we found my Crolard pass in an old purse this weekend and I almost had an epileptic seizure upon holding it in my currently terribly manicured hands. 

So après we went to Paris to meet up with Shaun and Lizzy and JJo was there too hey hey. So the French, as much as they adore eating cheese that has passed its prime, drinking Communion wine with dinner “casually” for health benefits (I am anticipating the day that I, too, can consume in this manner…oh wait), and capris on men (and women, unclear which is worse), adore ripping off Americans in a quite sadistic but somewhat amusing fashion. Twice in our two day trip our “check” was handwritten on a napkin. Literally the most SDF-ass shit I have ever seen. After seeing the splendors of la ville lumiere late Saturday night we decided we would love some hot chocolate. We stepped into a little café that we stumbled upon—in this context "stumbled upon" means chased by the proprietors down the street who shouted at us and demanded we enter, and thus we obliged mostly out of terror— where, unlike traditional French service, everyone was extremely genial and kind, there were simply so many waiters, everybody was taking our orders, fawning over us, and eager to serve. This is when we realized that everyone in the café was blackout. Actually most of the people taking our orders didn’t work there. This is hard to explain. I’m doing my best. One of our “waitresses” was an Amazonian-esque woman (wearing her purse while working, etrange) who was completely Tuesday status. As in, eye contact was tricky at this point. She proceeded to give us our hot chocolate, napkins, and asked us to raise our hands (she demonstrated, it was like a cross between Saturday Night Fever and I’m scared for my life if she gets any closer) if we needed anything. Oh and then she casually explained that she didn’t work there. It was naturally even more baffling then, when she handed us a bill on a napkin for 18 Euro. LA VIE CHERE. Good thing I don’t sporadically go on psycho shopping trips for myself so I always have cash to pay for the essentials like a warm drink. (HA)

Of course Lizzy was, in true form, perfectly polite and friendly, meanwhile I was gawking, pointing, and making a general scene, as happens to be my way. GOIL

Upon arrival back in Aix after taking a 5 am TGV back on Monday morning, I found myself exhausted and in desperate need to do laundry. I was trying discreetly to weasel change out of my ho-mo for the Laundromat (don’t EVEN talk to me about it) I would have enough change to do the 50 pounds of wash that I needed to do. She was laughing in my face. I desperately repeated, exhausted and not really wanting to deal with French hijinks, “Madame, je voudrais faire la vaisselle aujourd’hui. Avez-vous de la monnaie pour moi?” 

The reality of my inquiry is bemusing in retrospect. In my exhausted semi-rage I was asking her to give me money to do the dishes. Like a servant. Cool. Glad my domestic vocabulary is nothing short of stellar. I’m not cut out for this life. Yes yes I adore the faire la fete aspect but not so much the Laundromat/stray dog in the street aspect. I have been fatigued lately due to the “assignments” I have had to do for “school”. Currently formatting a “bibliography” which includes various Wikipedia “articles”, and attempting to disprove, in a Pulitzer prize-worthy redaction for my Communist Communications class, the commonly held French attitude that Mo Money= Mo Problems. At this rate, expected graduation date from Tufts= 2015. Meanwhile, I had to wheel my garments to the Laundromat in an oversized Tumi suitcase. Like, the kind that you check when embarking on a Transatlantic voyage for a period of at minimum 3 months. So basically I rolled up (rolled in with? rolled the bag in? I don't know/care) at the local laverie with a suitcase for a hamper.

 I feel as though the only difficile things about being so far away from Hotdogland are missing bad bitch Meredith Paul (probably one of the few who will appreciate the GOIL reference that I cleverly inserted— the cult of competition? why yes I would love some), the Alice & Olivia cruise collection which I want more than anything to peruse in person at the moment, and quesadillas slathered in white queso very much.

So, Belgium this weekend for a 45,000 people all-white Rave with DJ Martin Sovleig. OHHHHH, okay. See you never.

      Infinite bisoux to most of vous,

M