glad to see the dolly devils behaving themselves sagely
the night is young and restless and she's fidgeting under my seat.
my poor pattes are nearly recovered, but i'll have to give up on girliness. i will donate all the torturous footwear to my dear sister, as reward for her precocious alcoholism and relentless obstinacy. she nearly clobbered my grandmother!
so, david seems to be a strikingly interesting mec indeed. he talks a lot, like joshua, which mercilessly reminds me of my own social ineptitude, and awkwardness in general. i seem to have even lost the instinctual responses for generic questions new people compulsively ask. i try to answer truthfully and end up sounding ridiculous and clumsy.
hum. i would much prefer the days consist of 42 hours. it's certainly not that i am a busy bird and require more time to accomplish my missions, but i just seem to function better being up for 30 hours and then sleeping 12.
around luxembourg on the 38 the other day a small old man attempted stepping onto the bus from the forbidden back door, instead of the front. the doors were sliding shut and he finished by falling face-first and dropping his plastic supermarket bag and briefcase. two men helped him up, and began scolding him, "on monte par l'arriére, monsieur! pourquoi vous avez fait ça?!"
then the bus driver: "c'est quoi, ça?? vous vous prenez pour qui là?" everyone stared as he made his way towards a seat, clutching each rail tightly as he moved to the next.
my own stomach constricted in grief, but as soon as i start to feel a little sad or sorry for someone i am suddenly swept over with a rush of consequential guilt. i cannot freely give myself the luxurious hauteur from which to look down on people with a sigh and a shrug of pity. it is easier to hate. in other circumstances, of course. i guess because such a supposition is more superficial? it's undeniably silly to presume a self-excellence and significance which puts the rest of the world to a revolting shame. and conscious silliness is much more comfortable.
or something.
so. black boy in châtelet station, bare torso, kneeling by the steps hoping for some change. but what a pretty face! his cardboard sign is upside down. his eyes are shining behind thick lashes. i squint at him as i walk by. he does the same. cocks his head to one side like a puppy.
everyone is looking at me like they know something secret, and i wonder what it might be. i try providing a new significance to each smirking face on the metro, contorting them in terror and panic. explosions or tear gas as was so popular last last summer. (why was it always happening to us??)
but i thought...maybe death is not so horrific.
old-age and loneliness could be much worse.
my poor pattes are nearly recovered, but i'll have to give up on girliness. i will donate all the torturous footwear to my dear sister, as reward for her precocious alcoholism and relentless obstinacy. she nearly clobbered my grandmother!
so, david seems to be a strikingly interesting mec indeed. he talks a lot, like joshua, which mercilessly reminds me of my own social ineptitude, and awkwardness in general. i seem to have even lost the instinctual responses for generic questions new people compulsively ask. i try to answer truthfully and end up sounding ridiculous and clumsy.
hum. i would much prefer the days consist of 42 hours. it's certainly not that i am a busy bird and require more time to accomplish my missions, but i just seem to function better being up for 30 hours and then sleeping 12.
around luxembourg on the 38 the other day a small old man attempted stepping onto the bus from the forbidden back door, instead of the front. the doors were sliding shut and he finished by falling face-first and dropping his plastic supermarket bag and briefcase. two men helped him up, and began scolding him, "on monte par l'arriére, monsieur! pourquoi vous avez fait ça?!"
then the bus driver: "c'est quoi, ça?? vous vous prenez pour qui là?" everyone stared as he made his way towards a seat, clutching each rail tightly as he moved to the next.
my own stomach constricted in grief, but as soon as i start to feel a little sad or sorry for someone i am suddenly swept over with a rush of consequential guilt. i cannot freely give myself the luxurious hauteur from which to look down on people with a sigh and a shrug of pity. it is easier to hate. in other circumstances, of course. i guess because such a supposition is more superficial? it's undeniably silly to presume a self-excellence and significance which puts the rest of the world to a revolting shame. and conscious silliness is much more comfortable.
or something.
so. black boy in châtelet station, bare torso, kneeling by the steps hoping for some change. but what a pretty face! his cardboard sign is upside down. his eyes are shining behind thick lashes. i squint at him as i walk by. he does the same. cocks his head to one side like a puppy.
everyone is looking at me like they know something secret, and i wonder what it might be. i try providing a new significance to each smirking face on the metro, contorting them in terror and panic. explosions or tear gas as was so popular last last summer. (why was it always happening to us??)
but i thought...maybe death is not so horrific.
old-age and loneliness could be much worse.