I HAS HAT

mmn

Кевин - Polynesian Sass

Batty boy, I travelling through a box!


I HAS HAT
mmn

Bitches be like poutine.

When there is nothing to be done during your lunch time, I have a recommendation.  Fill your eat hole with poutine.  The kind of dish your taste buds will thank you for, but perhaps the incoming future heart issues might make you regret.

So far the best poutine I’ve had in Paris has been in The Moose (side note the chicken wings are divine) and not exactly expensive either (by Paris 6ème standards).  But it’s hard to write words about stuffing great food down my face, so just look at dem pix fam.

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Pool Boys
mmn

I've woken up early enough to make an effort at life. Perhaps far too much V neck though (which you

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Paula Dean
mmn

I came here to bang French Dudes

I always get asked why I came to France, because the French are quite interested in why anybody would bother coming here when they want to escape it.  In fairness, this isn’t limited to the French, anybody who has moved countries will have been asked this; followed by a tale of how much the person who posed the question wants to live where you came from.

I personally just wanted to, so I did, voilà.  But this doesn’t make an interesting story enough, people are seeking intrigue and perhaps a deportation story (when you have two passports, it seems to raise the question for some bizarre reason).

I’ve decidedly changed my direction when the question is thrown out there.  I’m here to bang French dudes.  The icebreaker of all icebreakers (to employ some bullshit managementism for you there).  Needless to say this seems to work, to the extent it becomes a self-fulfilling prophacy at times.

But I divert from the original concept of this post (see I planned something in advance).  The point is to bang French dudes you need to speak French, it comes part and parcel.

I had a time when I was confident I could throw down a perfect reflexive verb, like Kanye at a music award interupting Taylor Swift.  But then things went down, and that confidence blew up in to a catastrophic mess.

My internal voice tells me I couldn’t conjugate an er verb without looking a fool, so I don’t, I take the easy way out International English.  But I’m starting to get back up, you see, contrary to the myth that everybody in Paris speaks English, there are are a shitload of people that just can’t.  Or when dealing with any higher functioning extention of the government, won’t.

Par exemple, my bank branch calls itself « agence internationale », claiming there are many people who will talk whatever language you throw at them.  Only if it’s French, because ain’t nobody there who speaks anything else.  Each time I have to deal with something pointlessly technical, complex or day to day with them, it’s conducted in French.  And my god can I hold that shit up good, like Atlas but mastering the complexities of masculin and féminine and laying the ground work with the correct de, du, des, à, au, aux and etc.  How can I?  No fucking idea, but it just comes out.  I don’t think about it and we’re on form.

But I forget this and the many times that I’ve had to explain the hilarity of my own body to a medical professional while some how knowing the words for the respective parts.  When I feel there is no other way out, the French flows.

Why am I rambling on about this?  Because today, I’ve done something mundane as having my television box replaced.  Because she is fucked and I want my TV which I pay for.  I don’t need this nor have I been put in a position where I have to fix this, but I still picked up that phone, called the number and went through the entire ordeal to make this happen.

It doesn’t sound big, but the waining scream of that lack of confidence that just won’t fuck off, kept me from doing that for a few weeks.  Overstepping that shit, that’s a victory, one that brings me back to my end goal.  Banging French Dudes.

How am I bringing myself out of a situation where I’d rather Netflix myself to death?  One word at a time, conguated to perfection.


Pool Boys
mmn

Who needs a gym membership when you can lift these bro? #beerissoheavy

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Pool Boys
mmn

Burgerday, as you do. #solateatposting

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Pool Boys
mmn

Just so errbody be knowin' I've all grown up again. #shamelessselfpromition #wheresthebirthdaypizzaa

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Crack is Whack!
mmn

Passé décomposé

Finally an update out of my new Montparnasse HQ, after all that has gone on in the past year this it’s strange to think that two years ago from yesterday I started the move to Paris.

Having officially lived here for a year and six months (a year and seven months if you include when I was staying here for the month of may 2013), it’s been a bizarre experience.  My french has improved and declined and improved again, I’ve lived on each end of the city and some, had the pleasure of battling the french paperwork system, encounters with the ever so helpful Police Nationale, the billion and one things needed to rent an appartement and the hilarity of the french medical system (hope you don’t need to stay monsieur, it will cost 1.300€ a night! and my personal favourite so why are you here? the doctor asked as blood flowed down my face).  But you know what?  I would not have it any other way.

There have certainly been highs and lows, but all I need to do is step out of my front door to realise what I have here.

Having had the opportunity to grow up in one country, live in another and finally settle down here in France I can’t really say my life hasn’t been interesting; once it comes time to end my life long adventure on this great spinning ball in the deep void of space (because both impôts and death are a certainty, unless you have a good accountant then it’s only the latter).

On this time of reflection (my birthday) I take the moment to sit back and accept the previous year and the achievement of some how making it out alive from my early to teenage years with only moderate neurosis.  And let’s be honest, no self identified adult is entirely sure how they made it past eighteen.

It’s also bizarre to think that I’ve had my ongoing project for nineteen years, which is the same amount of time I lived on the otherside of this planet in Canada.  With the second being learning life the hard way in the UK for twelve years after that.

Being thirty-two (and seemingly being seen as twenty-five by my french counterparts – how I love you so France) is an awkward experience, social norms tell me I should have some kind of luxurious appartement, have a few small humans running around and be married to my boyfriend/husband (come on, I can’t fulfill all your wants society) of 17 who I met in high school.  Has that all happened, no not really, do I care?  Not all all, because I’M IN PARIS SUCKAS AND IT’S MAH BERFDAY YO.

The moral of this story, I end up writing a jumbled mess of thoughts on to a journal that has been active for fifteen years and post images of hot dudes for no relevant reason.  Take that internets!

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Pool Boys
mmn

Netflixing to eternity.

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Pool Boys
mmn

It lives! Feel the #OldSkool

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Pool Boys
mmn

I will burn like a bastard, but I had wifi.

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