I think I can, I think I can

I think that Apple should rent out its think tank or engineers, or whatever you call them, to other companies and government agencies that could really benefit from some of the genius that Steve Jobs makes billions off of. I'm not even talking about the MacBook Air here, although I have to admit, that's pretty damn cool, as in space age cool, as in, holy crap we're all going to be floating around in Delorians in twenty years cool. No, I'm talking about the eerie ability of the iPod to read my mind and play the exact song I want to hear when it's on shuffle songs. I mean, really, on more than one occasion, I've been sitting on the metro thinking, man, I could really go for some old school Rufus Wanwright, and then - bam - Poses starts playing. Crazy, right?

I was in the mood for some Rufus today. After sitting through two and a half hours of nonstop lecturing on the history of publishing in France, I had to meet with my memoir adviser, who basically told me I suck and my memoir is going to be shit. She said "this is going to get written late, I can feel it." Fuck you, I have until July 31. If you guys wanted it earlier, you shouldn't have given us all that time. And yes, I do understand that we get a grade for our presentation in May, and I do understand that I need a different plan for that than I do for my memoir, and I do understand that I need to start writing in May. I understand all of this because they told us in September, and I'm not an idiot. I did manage to get into grad school, remember, so chances are I can probably store away some very crucial details about the memoir that will make or break my academic career (which, incidentally, I'm pretty sure will come to a voluntary end after this year). Tell me to go faster, fine - I know I'm a slacker, and even though I'll just argue with you that it'll all get done somehow because it always does (seminar papers, anyone?), I'll appreciate it more if you have a personality when you say it instead of passive-aggressively telling me I'm a horrible student and I don't know what to do and my memoir is going to bore you. Do you even realize that the only reason they assigned me to you is because they felt bad for not including you in the whole memoir process from the start? Hey, wait. Actually, that makes me feel kind of crappy too. Well, it's not like it's the first time NYU has treated me (and the other grad students) like second-class citizens... but that's a story for another time when I'm not so enraged by my micro-managing, personality-negative bitch of a memoir adviser.

Oh, Dublin was great, by the way. We saw all the major stuff, though I didn't get to see the writers' museum like I wanted to, and I drank my weight in Guinness, which is a pretty large feat to accomplish, so I think I deserve some applause or a medal or a garish plaque to put on my wall or something. Being in Ireland was such a well-needed break from the severity of this place. It was so nice to be amongst jovial people - people that don't unabashedly look you up and down in the metro, people that smile willingly and often, people that CLEAN UP AFTER THEIR DOGS. Seriously, Paris, if I have to tell you one more time to pick up after your yappy little emasculated poodle, I'm going to do something very bad to you, most likely involving a baguette, a rump roast, and salad tongs.

This semester is going by way too fast. We only have two more months of classes left, and I probably only have 3 or 4 months left here. And the worst part is that I don't really know how I feel about that. I'm sure I'll go on and on about it in every post until I leave, but I'll sum it up thusly: I'm ok leaving Paris, but not leaving it forever. Some of my best thinking is done on the metro, when I'm plugged into my aforementioned telepathic iPod and zoning out into my own little universe; at some point last week, and I don't remember the thought process that went into it or what triggered it, but something happened and I said to myself, "I have got to go back home. I do not belong here." And I think I'm ok with that. And I feel like I'm an adult for being ok with that, and I think I'm ok with that too. Why am I still chasing a dream that is clearly never going to come true? I don't want to use absolutes or say never, but Paris is doesn't seem like it's ever going to be the life of sweater dresses and Chloé bags and late-night soirées at dimly-lit brasseries and sleepy Sunday brunches that I hoped it would be. I am simply an American in Paris. No French men have swept me off my feet onto their scooters, no one's offered me a life-changing, well-paying career or a cushy apartment in the Marais, I haven't magically dropped 50 pounds like that French Women Don't Get Fat woman suggested I would, and generally I'm just no longer as ecstatic about living in the City of Lights as I once was.

And I'm ok with that.

For now.