I'll be sorry later, I know

I realize this blog has become a lot less observational and lot more personal, and I guess I'm sorry for that? Sorry for indulging in my narcissistic tendencies to talk about the trivial events of my uninteresting life instead of making the same gross generalizations about French culture as people (including me) have been making in the last few years to try to get to the bottom of this whole cultural divide thing. I guess it's because I've spent so much time here, I've gotten used to things, or at least I don't notice as much as I used to anymore, or maybe I do, but it's not that interesting to me anymore, so I don't bother writing about it. Or maybe it's because I find the guy in the shady nightclub on a boat who flashed me the international sign for pussy while dancing three inches away from my face far more interesting than French women's ability to walk around all day in four-inch stilettos.

True story, by the way. The club was totally louche. I'm trying to bring that word into the American-English vernacular, in case you were wondering. It means something like sketchy, but also sleazy and shady. It's like an amalgam of the three - it gets the job done in a third of the time with twice the effect. I don't know how that proportion works, but just go with it. So anyways, this club. It was louche. Way louche. First of all, it's on a boat on the Seine, which is admittedly awesome, but then when you get inside and realize how hot and crowded it is, you start worrying that this is going to be the next "club disaster", like that fire a few years ago, and that tomorrow morning there will be stories about how this boat-club on the Seine sank in a fiery alcoholic blaze, leaving no drunken survivors. Thankfully, my nightmare was not realized. But I only spent an hour there, and then had to get out of the sweaty heap of twenty-year olds as I'd been elbowed one too many times in the back of the head by the couple having sex up against a pole behind me, and was ready to throw someone overboard. On the night bus home (i.e. back to a friend's place), the guy next to me fell asleep or passed out on my shoulder and my friend nearly fell out of her seat while sleeping. All in all, the night was somewhat of a failure.

Sunday night was the last pub quiz, and we won. Well, we tied, but we still got a bottle of shitty wine that no one drank. It's not the wine that matters, it's the glory. And oh, how sweet it is. I also got to meet a new Frenchie named Julien (it's fate, I tell you - or some really horrible joke the universe is playing on me), and re-meet another one I met once in September, whom I had a huge crush on but later found out was engaged. Ah well. Yesterday we played Mario Kart all afternoon and I finished a review of Sex and the City for SASSY, which is not my best work, but I tried my best. It's been a while since I've written a real review for anything, and I'm a little rusty. Plus, I loved the movie, but it was, in reality, not that great, so that was hard to negotiate.

You know that scene in Say Anything... where they're all at dinner, and the adults ask Lloyd what he wants to do for a living, and he says "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that." ? That's kind of my mantra right now. I know I've never had any interest in buying or selling ANYTHING, but that whole mindset kind of sums up how I feel about getting a job in the fall. So if you've got any tips on how to be independently wealthy, feel free to pass 'em along.

I'm going to try to be productive for a change. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then definitely Thursday. If I haven't written ten pages by Friday, please chastise me harshly.