Tous les garcons et filles de mon age.
Aujourd'hui, je vais aller au chez de medicin. Cette appointment est NEUF HEURES DAN LE MATIN! Je vais dormir retard. Euh, quand j'ai l'appointment, le medecin aurai moi des questions. Je pouvrais reponder, mais, je ne sais pas comment. Ah, apres la, je voudrais faire le shopping sur <>, <> aussi!, parce que j'ai besion des nouveaux jeans. Malheuruesment, je vais aller a ecole. Ai ai.
I've been thinking. French is much better sounding than English, and even makes more sense grammatically on some levels. It bothers me some, that fact. I like French, it flows so much better. So much more elegant, older and more refined. It's celebrated at the language of love and of the arts.
Dancer's movement are defined in the French language. Some of the movements that the bipeds attempt are made all the more grandoise by their equine counterparts in dressage, which is really only the ballet of horses.
It's the language de les Impressionistes. Some of the most brilliant art has come from France, as well as philosophy. Ah, Voltaire! Monet! Rousseau! Degas! Les Immortales! How we kneel and weep at your feet. Pour la vie, pour les artes, vive le France. Vive la lange..
I know as long as I have it, as long as I can keep thinking and writing in French, this country can't hold me.
Bleach: So's Your Face
Renji has always been proud of his tattoos. Each one was significant to some event or another in his life, most of those events being stupid reasons to get inked into this skin, but he had done it all the same.
The first streaks that darted across his forehead had been a dare with Rukia, who had raised her own eyebrows at him and said he wouldn't last two seconds into the needle. He'd been proud to say that she was wrong. He'd last an hour before snapping and shuddering all over, leaving the chosen design unfinished.
Then, when she'd left, he'd grown so mad, so damn wired, that stomping back to the tattoo artist didn't seem like such a bad idea. The artist in question rolled his eyes when Renji'd rolled in, but got over it soon enough when the young man practically thrust his back at him. The red head had made it through that session without so much as a flinch (granted, he couldn't lay in bed for the next three weeks).
His graduation, the left arm. His first real successful mission (ah, what kill it had been!) was marked with the right arm. They were covered with twin patterns of jagged black ink.
His chest had been the work of his first commissioned rank, which he can't seem to remember since he doesn't think he actually did anything other than see it as an excuse to walk the familiar path to the tattoo hut.
Learning his soul cutter's name? It had been a tough one, but he'd decided to have his face finished. They'd laughed, at first, at the sharp outlines, so he covered them with a headband, sunglasses, anything that seemed appropriate. And, in time, it ceased to bother him.
Until that little, annoying, her!, asked him, so quietly and so amused, when he'd had the guts to finally sit in the chair. But even that had been welcome.
This, however, is not.
"Dude." Renji's dumbstruck customer keeps on staring. "What the fuck happened to your face?"
I've been thinking. French is much better sounding than English, and even makes more sense grammatically on some levels. It bothers me some, that fact. I like French, it flows so much better. So much more elegant, older and more refined. It's celebrated at the language of love and of the arts.
Dancer's movement are defined in the French language. Some of the movements that the bipeds attempt are made all the more grandoise by their equine counterparts in dressage, which is really only the ballet of horses.
It's the language de les Impressionistes. Some of the most brilliant art has come from France, as well as philosophy. Ah, Voltaire! Monet! Rousseau! Degas! Les Immortales! How we kneel and weep at your feet. Pour la vie, pour les artes, vive le France. Vive la lange..
I know as long as I have it, as long as I can keep thinking and writing in French, this country can't hold me.
Bleach: So's Your Face
Renji has always been proud of his tattoos. Each one was significant to some event or another in his life, most of those events being stupid reasons to get inked into this skin, but he had done it all the same.
The first streaks that darted across his forehead had been a dare with Rukia, who had raised her own eyebrows at him and said he wouldn't last two seconds into the needle. He'd been proud to say that she was wrong. He'd last an hour before snapping and shuddering all over, leaving the chosen design unfinished.
Then, when she'd left, he'd grown so mad, so damn wired, that stomping back to the tattoo artist didn't seem like such a bad idea. The artist in question rolled his eyes when Renji'd rolled in, but got over it soon enough when the young man practically thrust his back at him. The red head had made it through that session without so much as a flinch (granted, he couldn't lay in bed for the next three weeks).
His graduation, the left arm. His first real successful mission (ah, what kill it had been!) was marked with the right arm. They were covered with twin patterns of jagged black ink.
His chest had been the work of his first commissioned rank, which he can't seem to remember since he doesn't think he actually did anything other than see it as an excuse to walk the familiar path to the tattoo hut.
Learning his soul cutter's name? It had been a tough one, but he'd decided to have his face finished. They'd laughed, at first, at the sharp outlines, so he covered them with a headband, sunglasses, anything that seemed appropriate. And, in time, it ceased to bother him.
Until that little, annoying, her!, asked him, so quietly and so amused, when he'd had the guts to finally sit in the chair. But even that had been welcome.
This, however, is not.
"Dude." Renji's dumbstruck customer keeps on staring. "What the fuck happened to your face?"