Le Métro

I like to play a little game along the lines of Fuck, Marry, Kill while I ride the subway each day in Paris. The thing is, the subway isn't always that pleasant. Very often, there is a smelly mofo who just smells up the fucking train. But typically, there is also at least somebody present who's cute enough to make up for it. (Shout-out: Random guy with longish, curly hair, who was wearing dark neutral tones the other day!! You had potential, even with your strange gait. [I just described most of Paris...]) I don't look them in the eye...seriously, no one seems to make eye contact with strangers here!! But I nevertheless glance around the car. It helps pass the time.

Plus, it's innocent enough. I'm not planning on fucking anyone. I think meeting on the subway requires a little more coyness than that. At least a drink in bar in a semi-popular neighborhood. Also, it can never be that fruitful because it very often ties into my soon-to-be-proposed game show: "Is he gay or just European?"

Verbose

What's more valuable: feelings or intentions? I feel as if this debate is the one perpetually going on in my mind. As a sensitive person, I'm so often insulted or hurt and people try to reconcile that by reminding me of intent. The problem is that I'm logical, romantic, loyal, stubborn, and narcissistic. I can see the logic of both sides: when someone doesn't mean to hurt you, it should objectively be less offensive. However, that does not negate the feeling produced. I'm romantic and thus I try to see the good in everyone ("She didn't intend on it sounding that way"). I'm loyal—once you gain access to my inner circle, despite my high expectations, I really don't want to push you out. This hesitance to change leads pretty wonderfully into my stubbornness. And my narcissism means that I tend to want to value my feelings more than others' intentions.

The solution is always to compromise. I just wish that this all was easier for me to express, preferably in less than 1 paragraph.

I feel fine

I have a cold, but I don't really care. I'm living in Paris. Fuck you, I'm in PARIS. It's bizarre for me to be living in a city after doing my suburban and campus routines for so long. Today, I was in a metro car filled to the maximum capacity (thanks to the strike today—yay strikes!) and I felt fine. It was strange, a little weird, but fine. I got out at my stop, I wasn't crushed. I did it. Sure my French really isn't that awesome, but I have 4 months to work on it.

I might only have class Tuesdays and Wednesdays...which is insane. But hopefully an internship and maybe also a part-time job. There are a lot of ads for English teachers, which makes me feel like a governess and thus fabulous. (I go the Fraulein Maria route not quite the Jane Eyre route. I'd prefer Nazis over Berthe, sorry.) On verra, on verra. Ça m'est égal et en fait, ça va.

Let's try this again.

It's difficult to let go of someone whom you once held in high esteem. The disillusionment of realizing that he, who causes you so much pain now, is the same he that you let in however long ago—that disillusionment feels like a noxious cocktail of nausea, regret, and hate. I think that it's the acknowledgement and attempt at comprehension of these emotions that truly renders you frankly and wholly hurt. "Heartache" seems to be quite apt of an expression, since the pain is dull, lingering, and sometimes consuming. But no amount of ibuprofen, caffeine, or acupuncture can remedy it.

That "time heals everything" bullshit always returns to mock me like the forgotten lyrics to Mariah Carey's "Heartbreaker." I remain stubborn, conceding that time simply makes you forget. Perhaps that's what healing really entails. I'm not quite sure. For as old as I claim to be and as I often feel, I'm not really all that wise. Being precocious doesn't really have much carry-over into your twenties, I suppose. Although, I find myself reverting to old methods of coping. I want to cut things and people out of my life. Trim the split-ends so your hair will grow, right? Well, I need to get my hair did, wash that man right outta my hair, whatever it takes.

I will acknowledge, I will embrace, and I will purge. I go through the ritual out of some quest to achieve more clarity. I have hope that life will acquire more clarity once I rid myself of this particular baggage. Still, a part of me holds out faith that there will be that 11th hour decision. As much as I try to regain my childhood simplicity, that innate optimism is often the sole barrier to any growth. Maybe that's just it? I'm looking for 'childhood simplicity' at twenty-years-old. I need to be more accommodating to my age if I want to be more content.

On verra, on verra. The only thing I know for sure is that it is a relief to write. I forgot how much catharsis can be a reality.

Whoops.

So my plan was an epic fail. I unpacked and I've been doing a bit of long walking...but that's about all of my plan that I've actually accomplished. And now I have a new one...just to show that I can. This time, there's more of my pride at stake because I've told real people. Clearly, that was a bad (brilliant) idea because now I'm stuck with it. I sometimes forget that I'm a prideful fuck.

But this plan is more short-term: only 1-2 weeks depending on how it goes. So, almost 1 day down, 6-13 more?

Oh, and I'm blocking facebook after checking it each morning. Maybe I can make some progress. We'll see.

You Don't Own Me

I actually vaguely enjoyed The First Wives' Club. Not that much—I mean it really kinda sucked. I'm pretty obviously fond of any film's inclusion of a musical number though. And this film has "You Don't Own Me," the Lesley Gore song. Gore sings of who sounds like a controlling boyfriend. Little 'feminist' anthem, if you will.

Well, I'd like some liberation, too, but from my emotions. Finals week is over. Semester from Hell is done. It's time to quit the dramatics, the whining, the unhealthy habits, etc. etc. I want to take back my own life...from myself. (This framework sounds like a 90's era Lifetime movie: Getting Back to Me: The Wally Fisher Story or Stop! Don't You Dare, I'm Better Than This: The Wally Fisher Story.) I am a diva. I should not be THIS lame.

So I'm starting a new life plan tomorrow: get up early, exercise, eat a sensible meal, unpack a little, read, do something to study my French, write, start to ween back off Diet Coke, and figure out a new hobby.

You don't own me, motherfucker.

What's the difference if I say, "I'll go away," when I know I'll come back on my knees someday?

Technology will be my downfall. I think that living back in the days where the quickest communication was like pony express would chill me out a bit more...and not only because I think that I would be a lovely letter writer and that ponies are adorable. I hate this instaneous gratification nonsense. Now, whenever I don't IMMEDIATELY receive a text/IM/ask;fjdaklfd in response, I'm freaking out that something has gone awry. Gah. (Side-note: This anxiety also comes as a result of watching far too many episodes of To Catch a Predator, 48 Hours Mystery, 48 Hours on WE, CSI, NCIS, Law & Order: SVU, and slasher films. But that's a minor detail.)

Not to mention the fact that youtube steals about 3 hours of my day everyday. Yes, I could acquire some self-control, but I think it'd be easier for the internet/cell phones/etc. to cease being. Then I'd be so much more productive. Or bored. But there's a chance I could be productive, whereas right now, I'm watching videos of 3 different versions of Barbra Streisand's "My Man," and far too many Shirley Bassey concert clips.

I really try quitting or at least cutting down, but I'm really bad at it. I'm lazy and I like routine. Besides, now that I'm home, even if I self-control my Mac, I'll just go onto someone else's computer. There's no point in pretending to quit if I can't just do it.

Speaking of which, I'm back on Diet Coke...in a big way. Let's nip this in the bud (am I the only one who, at one point, thought that was supposed to say 'butt' and was very confused?) and not let it become last summer in repeat. I am not a youtube clip. No mo' replay. Yes, yes, I did that. Because I'm lame and as soon as I finished finals I stopped being able to think critically...if I ever was capable.

Heaven Knows

Boy do I love me some disco. Whether it's Donna Summer faking an orgasm or Barry Gibb making puppies cry, it's some good shit. There are some surprises, though! The Trammps (yeah, seriously two M's) had a big hit with "Disco Inferno," but who knew that was an eleven-minute song!? Whoa. This is how you know discotheque-attendees were drunk and high out of their minds. Who else would listen to songs that go on and on for over ten minutes repetitively!? (I, for one, can barely stand a five-minute ditty.) And have you heard "The Hustle" lately? "Do the hustle. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-ETC." That's the entire song. No lie.

But I'll listen to them all. Sober. I really can't tell you why. They're fun to dance to? Doing laundry is a breeze when accompanied by The BeeGees? Heaven knows!

(That isn't as redundant and stupid as it seems. I love the Donna Summer song, "Heaven Knows." It's my jam.)

Who gonna check me, boo?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHGiOeMbDRI

Credit goes to Professor Eve Dunbar for reminding me of this phrase's existence.

Who gonna check me, boo?

At first glance, it seems like just another saying to cop out of a fight like "Whateva, whateva!" or "Whatcha gonna do about it?" But I think there's more to it than that. Ultimately, it's something of a power-struggle along the lines of "Try me."

And I've been thinking of the fact that fairly few people actually ever 'check' or 'try' me. I find it almost funny and almost sad. It's humorous because I'm actually a sensitive person and also a pacifist. I'm not about to hit somebody, please. But I could use some criticism every now and then. Not only in an academic setting, but all of the time, criticism is essential to our growth. If no one has the tenacity to say, "Hold up, boo, I think you're getting ahead of yourself." or "Come again? I think you need a breather." how are we to acknowledge our own faults?

Passion is wonderful. I don't know how I'd live if everything were just okay. But sometimes I can be overemotional. Sometimes I can be a pain in the ass. But I don't want to be that obnoxious son of a bitch that errybody wants to kick in the face (but to whom no one says shit).

Gah. Here's hoping that my introspection in this situation is, in fact, one of my overthinkin's. Because that's my life: once my brain starts, it does not stop for nobody.

Until it does, I'm stuck. And I'm not all about Jewel and worrying about who will save my soul. That's mostly inconsequential. Nah. I'm worrying about who gonna check me! Boo.

Part of yo' motha fuckin' world, bitch!

Apparently, I still know all of the lyrics to "Part of Your/That World." (Did you realize it had two titles? Part of your world and part of that world. Seriously. I looked it up. Because I have a wiki-binging problem. Or a binging problem in general. But let's just stick with wiki.) I have to admit that this was maybe the highlight of my day. And I don't find that pathetic at all! I love it when I have eureka moments like that. Especially when they have to do with cheesy songs. It brings me back, whole nostalgia thing.

Which brings me to my next point. (Did I have a point earlier? Didn't think so. But I don't give a fuck.) I recently turned twenty. I am no longer a teenager. And I don't know how to react to it. I typically don't pay my birthdays much regard. They're so strange anyway. But this year is a little different. I've officially lived two decades and I feel as if I've lived about four-and-a-half. I'm practically an adult. Oh, I know...I'm a young adult, but that's only appropriate in a library. Fuck if I've even ever read young adult fiction.

So the moral of the story is that I'm fucking old!!! And it's actually okay. I think I'm going to be just fine. And either way, I don't give a fuck. Imma have me a drank, belt some shitty or super amazing music, and read me some Audre Lorde. Truth.