Swear I was born right in the doorway.

I moved out of my apartment today. Took one last look at the place that housed my life in Paris before I lugged my baggage down the windy stairs into the oppressive Paris heat. Took one last look at Rue St Jacques, the epicerie that I went to, the place that gave me food poisoning, Val de Grace's stone which under the warmth of different suns shines a myriad of different colors. I am no longer living here, I am a visitor staying with friends, a tourist in the city that I feel is more like my home than where I grew up. I do not have an address in the city anymore, I do not have a cafe where the baristas know who I am (and that I am always late) or a boulanger who prepares the baguette and croissant that he knows I will want when I walk through the door. In all those ridiculous questions, you have a day, a week, a month left to live what would you do you are forced to live you are forced to evaluate what is the most important in your life. Is the good time and the experience what you live for, will you party out your last days on earth, will you spend it quietly with the person you love? That, in a way, is what I am going through now. My days are so short that I can taste the end, I can already feel the tears welling up that I will cry when I leave. Moving out of my apartment marked the end for me, and now I am forced to decided how I will leave a city and the people that I love so desperately. I have 21 days left to live in Paris, what will I do? 

Ross Ross Ross.

Wanna see what true greatness looks like. I will give you a glimpse

Eloge de ma fainéantise

Changement de narrateur pour aujourd'hui messieurs-dames, et dans la langue de Molière s'il vous plait. Mais l'inspiration est une chose compliquée, mais un écrivain rate n'est pas vraiment rate s'il ne passe pas des heures a regarder sa cigarette se consumer, et son café refroidir (moi un connard d'élitiste? ouais et je vous emmerde.) Non je plaisante, je suis même pas écrivain, ou alors un très mauvais, et très pauvre, et très mauvais. A part ca je vais me présenter bêtement, comme la petite blonde mignonne a coté de moi me l’a demandé. Baptiste, 17, 18, 19 ou 25 ans, ca dépend de mon interlocuteur, et de ma copine, parfois. Je crois qu’on me connaît sous le nom du « Cobbler » , mais je fais autre chose dans la vie, de plus ou moins utile j’entends. Pour commencer je pense qu’il y a deux choses drôles dans la vie : Les chaussures de clown trop grandes, et les échelles de pompier trop petites. J’étudie la littérature française a la Sorbonne, et je pars l’an prochain faire le tour du monde, car c’est maintenant ou jamais. Je voulais devenir journaliste dans la musique, mais l’idée de me retrouver sur mon lit de mort sans avoir tout vu me répugne, tout connement. La vie, on ne veut pas la grignoter, on veut la violer sauvagement, comme quand vous voyez une fille dans le métro - je suis pas matchiste, c’est un exemple, merde- prendre un morceau de son sandwich, d’une façon tellement prude…tellement gentille…mais bordel, fous-y ta tête entièrement ma grande, avale le comme si c’etait le dernier repas du condamné que tu es (that’s what she said.) , la vie est trop courte pour pas manger un sandwich comme ta raison l’entend. Bref, je pars entre 1 mois et 20 ans. J’aimerais être pêcheur en Afrique du sud pendant un moment, on verra après.

Bref, tout ça pour dire, enchanté. Prenez soin d’Hannah quand elle rentrera. S’il vous plait.

B.

If the Aristocats Went to School...

And so my brief affair with Sciences Po comes to an end. It was a torrid affair, with much passion and even more angry hate sex (figuratively speaking, of course). I did not like Sciences Po, the international and french students are hilariously segregated (it is everyone's fault, I will not point fingers) the method of teaching is dull and forces one to re-examine their love of school and their professors for the most part are disinterested and boring. However, the fear that struck me when I first arrived has evaporated, I can now walk around the buildings with confidence, I can take part in classes despite the fact that they are terribly boring. I would have liked to stay a year, I am sure the second semester would have been easier. Several months here and, of course, there have been some things that I have noticed:

* If you want to look like a giant pretentious douche bag that takes himself too seriously wear a cravat to class. You know there is nothing that screams, I am making up for something than standing in front of the class with an 19th century cravat pluming out of your jacket like a baboons ass. Good for you, I hate you already and I didn't even have to exchange one word with you. 

* A school with a reputation like Sciences Po should be able to provide several printers that work to their students, or at least someone that is easy to get a hold of to fix broken ones. A school that has the lazy indifference to their student's like Sciences Po however, should only provide printers that work for specific hours in the day and sometimes just reject people for shits and giggles. 

* I have a brilliant way to reduce procrastination problems! Unlike American universities where the libraries are open after dark and on holidays and weekends we should do things like the French who actively dissuade students by studying and close libraries on Sundays and never have them open past fucking 9. Really. 

30 Nights of Day: Late Night Sunset Rocks Harder than Ted Nugent

The best part of summer is always the fact that the days are longer. When the sunsets at 8pm back home it means that you are still drinking on the porch around 10pm, your night doesn't start until midnight. In Paris the sun doesn't set until nearly 10:30. Amazing. What does this mean for a student who doesn't really study? This means that the time in which you feel obligated your homework comes on Monday at midnight and the time that the pre-gaming stops and the partying begins at 2am. But don't be worried mother and mother's friends, it is not all about constant partying (yet it is) there are also the aesthetic aspects of the late night sunset that makes Paris in the summer time the Audrey Hepburn like romantic experience you would expect. At 9:30ish the light dims and starts to play on the buildings, the river begins to look less disgusting and starts to become beautiful and mysterious. It gets slightly cooler, but not cold enough for a jacket, the perfect time to sit out for whatever drinks or dinner that you can afford. Suddenly drinking on bridges, in parks, on the Champs de Mars waiting for the tour to light up, are practically a friday/saturday/monday night ritual. I have a feeling that one of the aspects of the city I will miss most is waiting on the grass with 2 Euro wine for the 10:30 sunset.