The disgusting thoughts I have in the subway – Part I

I am now back to France to go through an exam period for my BSc in Psychology. Yeah I know, I am SO GOOD: mother, Business Developer for a start-up, lover, and the future savior of all my friends with psychosis and neurosis. I am even EXTRA GOOD.

But for one little bone: I could not make it to Reims (you know the city, capital of Champagne, where they sell REAL champagne). Like now, I am writing stuff on my public diary instead of writing my exam in Psychopathology. Which I would have totally rocked. I had already lots of ideas to share on how to treat this and that – mainly drunken ideas which came this weekend I spent with my Parisian friends…bastards… observing their weird behaviors. Oh and I am sure I would have rocked the one of Inter-group relationships too. Because I am that good, and because I have observed my own behavior adapting to my friends’s.

Well, that’s okay. I’ll pass the exams of the rest of the week and pray the stars and bet on my luck to be allowed to pass in spite of everything. Because I am good, but stars and luck are good…er.

I won’t tell you what happened because I am ashamed and that’s not a public diary of ashameness. If I had an Instagram, I would NEVER put on the pictures of the dirty five year old sweat pants I could wear on Sundays. Because I don’t. I only wear totally wearable and fashionable stuff. Even on Sundays. What, you don’t believe me? Well… that’s not even what I was talking about. I mean Instagram. Though I will probably write something about it anytime soon.

Because I just got a smartphone. Yeah, me. Horrible.

It’s all the fault of the smartphone.

Societies are getting worse because of it. And then we have odd thoughts in the subway. You don’t follow me?

Look, since the smartphone and Instagram, I see people around me feeling guilty because their homes and gardens ain’t white and grey (like mine could be posted on the page 102 of Better Homes & Gardens, if there was one), and they did not use their gym card since they took one two years ago (and that they continue to pay, but that’s their own fucking choice, no?). And, sorry, but those wonder wanderers surfing huge waves and punching with their bare hands HUGE sharks and then they go rollerblading to their awesome offices… hm, okay. Also, we aren’t all fucking Jamie Olliver. Well, I could be, but I feel I am slightly better looking. Which engages only me, of course. Especially if you know that I am now eating the fourth croissant of the breakfast (AND IT IS NOT FUCKING BREAKFAST TIME BUT 3 PM). So those people I see, they think: “Fuck, what did I do with my life? I am alone drinking my 9 EUR bitter beer (it’s Paris here, no kidding with the price) sitting view on the subway and the cigarette butts left dying on the sidewalk by anonymous assholes.”

This shit makes me sick. And gives me ideas too. I am soon on Instagram, I m telling you...

That’s absolutely NOT my living room. Hell, the day you see me willingly hammering fucking pigeons on my wall, kill me.
Though I totally respect people’s choice to decorate their place with flying rats.
Photo credits: Shinoshi

But how do the Instagramers do? Is it me? How is it that I can’t fucking do glamorous whatever in my 24 hour day, too?

Well, first I don’t have an account. Then, my ego. Taking a one hour posing with multiple shots and maximal contrast plus monanegra filter wefie / selfie is not something I want to put on my ego booster list. Because I am different, of course. Also, I have a child. And, hm, I am too lazy. I have friends to do it for me.

But then, I thought the same about the smartphone. I fought well, I swear. None of my distant friends could bring me to buy one arguing that Whatsapp and / or Viber would SO MUCH bring us together no matter the distance in the world between us. Guys, I wrote you postcards I made my fucking self. None of my bosses could pressure me enough with their BYOD policies allowing money back only on super secured Blackberries my ass on the moon. My little Samsung could have NEVER been cracked or pirated. It could not go on the Internets. I fought well and long and bravely. Never ashamed, always proud. I was accepted as an oddity of my generation, and I felt awesome. And my phone died. Out. And left me alone in this cold world tyrannized by the smart people.

I went to a store. To another. And another. And then Babylove got hungry. And Love too. So I had to decide between

  1. the devilish device
  2. flying to Europe without being able to reach anyone and taking the chance to die alone in the sea dehydrated in the water if my flight had crashed… okay, this is going too far, but you get the idea

And against my free will and my high principles, because of hunger and curiosity, and because my old phone had left me… well, I bought a smartphone.

Now I am like everybody else and I feel my pride and my ego shivering away, slowly melting down under the heat of my curiosity for all things social and white & grey homes and gardens.

Horrible.

Oops, I forgot to tell you about the disgusting thoughts I have in the subway in Paris. And why it’s all because of the smartphone. Can do the latter, though.

Because my friends aren’t so good, they never reply to my postcards (did I precise that I draw or photograph them myself? How bad a friend can you be to think that a chat app is better than that?!). So almost nobody RSVPed to my welcome back to Paris Jess party (only the best did). But then with this newly bought smartphone, I got a newly installed Whatsapp. Many came out of curiosity to see me drowning my shame in alcohol… And we danced. And we cried. And we laughed. And had a really really really good time. From Friday to this morning. More or less.

This is me. Jess.

Smokes, alcohol and cheese ain’t the answer. Unless you ask me what I did this weekend.

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3 thoughts on “The disgusting thoughts I have in the subway – Part I

  1. finkelstein says:

    What’s your Instagram account? I’d love to follow your brilliantly glamorous life, and you could follow mine with my baking failures, flubby tummy workout pics and unsharp portraits of my kids.

    Like

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