existence

I exist!

The qs and as are at odds in my keyboardy memory banks...and this space bar is fucking fucked up!

I'm in Missoula currently. I have been mainly sitting on my stoned arse and watching movies, etc.

It is quite boring, but fun when I get to Mo-town and see my beloved friiiiiiends.

I need to stop eating all the time, perhaps.

Also, I have a short story and I'mgoing to fucking run with itm biiitches!

That's all.

peace out, beotch!

I am leaving France. TOMORROW! Fuck. Packing is still a significant pain in the ass, but I think I have done most of it. May have to throw away more shit than I already have (TRULY a statement) but I think I should survive. The mere idea of dragging my luggage around Paris and getting soaked in my own sweat is still chilling, but I think this time the dragging and sweating should be slightly more minimal. One hopes! This time, I am armed with the knowledge that there is a bus from Gare du Montparnasse to Charles de Gaulle, which will hopefully ease matters.

But I still can't help but thinking I will be barred from exiting this fucking country because I didn't EVER GET my carte de sejour. And I lost my titre de sejour, for a second time. This is basically the thing that goes in my passport and says I have the right to be spending this much bloody time in France.

So, I've said my goodbyes to almost everyone, which was only hugely traumatic and sad, made worse by the fact that I am slightly emotionally retarded and have no fucking clue how to say goodbye to people.

But my big crazy plan for saying goodbye to the Brest peeps worked like a charm. My friend Medhi let me use his house, which was the site of two all-night fetes in a row in the mad days of January. I debuted the 'dj-eurotrash presents: international party mix 2005' which I have been putting together for a while, and it was HOT, let me assure ye!

I, of course, got madly drunk and have zero recollection of the last two hours of my consciousness (between three and five) but apparently I was having a really swell time until I crashed in Medhi's bed and refused to leave and had to be carried to the clickclack (foldout bed). I was slightly embarassed to hear this particular detail, but whatever remains whatever.

Anyway, I am currently taking a little chill out from the unbridled insanity that is packing. How lovely to think I will be moving twice in the next six months! AWESOME! Not even counting the transitional month chez mes parents going through all the shit I have left there.

All I really have left to do today is wait for my darling Imani to arrive, so we can bid each other a thoroughly emo farewell. History has the odds against me crying, since I have only cried once in my adult life, but only the good lord knows.

My beloved Germans have actually agreed to take me to the train station tomorrow...AT FIVE IN THE FUCKING MORNING?! I'm not really thrilled about having to go there at such an ungodly hour, but it warms me heart that they're willing to take me. The travel day will only be mildly hellish, one hopes, but I will actually arrive on the night of the same day, as opposed to the three days of travel madness that found me stumbling like a sleep-deprived madman with rust French into Paris. Sweating, as previously mentioned.

Need to call my bro and make sure he's able to deliver me my delicious holistic herbs. I need that shit!

last entry in france

This shall be my last missive from the beloved salle de profs at my lycee. And probably the last one I will have time to write in this country, if my prediction is accurate.

Yesterday, we had the fete for the assistants, which was a nice little affair. Lots of patisseries, but only orange juice, no social lubricant known as alcohol. It is the school, after all! Lord knows I've never been drunk or high on these premises, of course!

Anyway, it was a nice gathering, we got cute presents and took some of the profs out drinking with us. We all had to make a speech, which was only slightly traumatic.

With the anxiety of the recent speech-deliverers, Matt and I hit the town and the sauce with a vengance. It was perhaps the last sortie I will embark on in Morlaix, and thus weird and pre-nostalgic. It doesn't help that I'm in the middle of reading 100 Years of Solitude for the third time this year, and lord knows it makes a man nostalgic, if only because he uses the word about 10,000 times.

This computer is slow and I'm feeling a bit slow moi-mem, so I shall end this entry now. Today, it's off to Brest for the going away fete that will leave us all reeling. I'm super excited that my one French freind, Medhi is letting us throw the fete at his place! Yay!

Okay, that's all for now. Check you in the crazy ole USA, bloggybabes.

from the impossible natural spectacles to the east...

I have come to ye!

Holy shit. To continue in the grand tradition of non-consecutive order, I shall start with the spectacle that was Saturday and Sunday of this weekend! Ye gods. We went to Mount Saint-Michel on Saturday morning - the sun was bright but it was still early enough to catch a lot of shadow, which made my photos awesome.

Then, I fucked up my ankle, which was AWESOME! Saturday night and Sunday morning, it was swollen like the bells of hells! But I can't talk about that right now. Let's continue on to Saint Malo as if nothing had been said.

Oh Jesus. The surveyant of my dreams is in the salle de profs. I think it goes without saying that I'm also and perhaps not coincidentally high as balls. Why is he so fucking dreamy?! Damn. Cue the afternoon of furious masturbation.

Saint Malo! So, so, so beautiful! I couldn't believe I wasn't in the south of France. The center was small enough for moi, the Germans and Matt to make several circles we had first considered accidental then suddenly realized were due to the fact that we had seen all the downtown many times over.

But, lovely. The beach was amazing, the water was a blue/emerald that was fucking unreal, the wind was cold as fuck but the shocking excess of sun made a world of diff. I love having the wind rip through my crazy long hair, it makes me feel young and unstable! I would have been running around like a kid, but for the 'let's not talk about it' ankle.

That night, we partied with American and English assistants from the coin and Rennes - the people there were rad, I made irresponsible promises to do mushrooms with a rad girl this summer, the music was weird and cornily retrospective (great anthem classics of the '70s and '80s...errr) and the sangria was weak but later tainted by vodka and champagne. It was cool.

Then, the Germans and I decided to go home and watch porn at our hotel around 2 - Matt decided to go skinny dipping in the ice-cold Atlantic in the wee small hours of the morning. Um, cool, hope you live to tell the tale, yo! We left cwith the encouragement that he could call me when he wanted to get back into the ho-tel. I failed to evaluate my own bollocksedness, apparently. Because he called me and we had a one-minute conversation. During which I was completely unconscious. So, he called me four more times and I failed to both respond and let him in.

I woke up at six and realized at least half these details. I worried for half an hour, then went back to sleep. I had this wild, weird dream that when we found Matt the next day, he had long Tarzan hair and had turned into a complete rogue of a man! Every time my friend Elaine started talking, he jumped on her and starting making out with her like an animal! Then, in an interlude, I was in a room with these two hot dudes. One of them, who escapes my recollection but whom I definitely know, comes up to me and says, 'He wants to play with us.' Then, we start snogging rather sleazily and I was certain it was actually happening because it was so fucking vivid. I don't know what the other guy was doing. When I mentioned it to Matt, he sort of sneered and said, 'Yeah, I totally already fucked those guys.'

Weird!

He was able to get back into the hotel at 10 and went to great lengths to convince me that he had slept on the bitterly cold streets of Saint Malo. Which I knew wasn't true, but what could I say?! It was my fault.

Then we did happy fun things like eat delish breakfast and go to Dinard (amazing!) and Dinan (slightly less amazing, not as cool).

I think my ankle is going to be ok and would heartily like to avoid returning to the hospital. But I will do what I must.

I leave in seven days and I am freaking the fuck out! I packed almost a complete suitcase.

AH! AH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!





take the WHAT BAD BOOK ARE YOU test.


and go to mewing.net. not as good as reading a good book, but way better than a bad one.

back from the drunken land of rennes

Two things need to be said right from the get-go:

1.) The departure countdown is now at thirteen days. This is terrifying the shit out of me and normally this would be the point at which I would re-change my ticket but I know it's the right decision but that shit is so freaky to stand behind, I mean, am I actually making a mature adult decision? Take a fucking picture of this moment.

2.) I have at long last added the coveted links section! You may now congratulate me on the re-mastery of basic HTML.

That said, on to the weekend synopsis! Rennes, as always, was excellent. I love Rennes because it combines the flavor of Bretagne (that is to say, rampant drunkenness) with the charm of the classic-looking medium-sized French city. There are huge places all over, lots of cool old buildings, streets full of attractive, stylish (?! who know there were still stylish people in France?!) young people. It's definitely a student/party town and I love it, in spite of the mysterious absence of H&M.

While the acquaintance-in-law-twice-removed who put me up was alternately cold and welcoming, that ended up working out really well. This family had their babysitter take me out to the bars on Friday night. This girl is a 20 year-old dental student/surfer, so even though we had discussed how bad all the public-jointing smoking in Rennes is with my hostess, we obviously ended up participating in this great tradition ourselves. She was cool - it was a good challenge for me to undertake, to hold a conversation with a motormouthed French girl.

Then a pack of my peeps came down on Saturday. Let us say from the get-go the soiree was a terribly uncivilized affair! My friend Alex and I hit the infamous rue de la soif, making the tour of three euro pint bars and chatting about our obsession with E! while making fun of French people.

Then, we met up with my friends Elaine and Anna at the Irish pub, then invited ourselves to some ridiculous Brit Erasmus afterparty which was being held across the street from the girls' hotel. I spent most of the undetermined amount of time passed there hitting on an adorable French lad who actually wanted to speak in English (?!) but at the end of the night, I was too five-in-the-morning-ishly drunk to try for the pelvic follow-up. I think he wasn't queer anyway, but now we'll never know.

The next day, the streets were even more suspiciously empty than a normal French Sunday. Later, I realized the Pope was dead, so I guess everyone had to stay home and cry? I dunno. Don't expect any thoughtful commentary from me on this end - I am a heathen, but I'm definitely not going to make fun of the poor dead bastard. Or anything.

Anyway, I was painfully hung over, so decided to sit down at an abandonned bus stop to roll a joint. Which is really the only way I can explain the fact that I was in first class on the way home. As mix-ups go, it was so fucking SNCF.

In closing, I would like to thank Riso Grillo, the official boxed-risotto of this blog.