The Parisian metro, if I may give some precision.
“It smells like my 158 year old neighbor’s living room.” Or what I imagine his living room would smell, given his own body flavor. I might go check if he’s still alive when I come back to Singap. Might, because as well, I might die here, in the subway, thinking disgusting stuff.
I am back from Reims. Finished writing the rest of my exams. Relieved. It was super hard, and I feel 22 year old all over again. Horrible sensation. The boom boom in my head mainly – now I have to precise that some of my best friends decided to ruin my future career and came to visit me every evening to drink Champagne. As I am weak and I don’t see them that often – mainly my weakness and my taste for sparkling wine on my strawberry pie – I kept my arms and throat wide open to receive them… that sounds nasty now. See? 22 year old.
“If I add some avocado in the Deep Fried Bacon Peanut Butter Balls, will Ele eat them?” I found this absolutely disgusting recipe on DudeFood on Facebook after she left me the other night to take her shared not Uber at all (it’s illegal in France hinhinhin). I sent her the link but, as she is on avocado addiction these days, she did not seem as open as I had expected. Ele, she’s my best friend. She loves cats and wine (and beer at the end of the month). She is fun and smokes long thin whore cigarettes. Me too sometimes, but just because I mouch her. Once we kissed with the TONGUE. We were probably 22. Well, we are French. We kiss everybody and touch a lot people around us. It’s cultural: this is our way to empathize and get close.
Like the guy sitting next to me, in the subway. I think he wants to empathize with me. My hand will soon empathize with his face. Or my foot with his balls, depending on if I decide to stand up. He tells me that his girlfriend is in Sweden for her internship, and he’s kinda free and open. Love won’t restrict his liberty. I totally know his whole life after 14 minutes. That’s the effect I have on people when they sit next to me in the subway, or on a terrasse with my sunglasses and my ristretto. Can’t make up why. It’s a super power I guess.
“Putain the poles are so greasy I can see digital prints with my bare eyes without squinting behind my sunglasses.” And they are super dark, like, you know, the ones you wear when you have a ophthalmic migraine after days of drinking alcohol and you’re not completely sure the world will ever stop moving as if you were on a drunken boat piloted by a blind rhumized captain. He’s probably even high on something. The captain. I feel like 22, but I am not anymore. I am RESPONSIBLE. Luckily, Babylove is safe and sound tyrannizing his grand-mother in Germany.
If I were a forensic, I would take the fingerprints on the poles and then, I would sue all these disgusting people who “forgot” to take a shower this morning before leaving to work. I even took one. It wasn’t easy to extract myself from the couch of the AirBnb guy – super nice and tolerant by the way, thank you Jerem, if you ever read this – to carry my body to the bathroom. But I did it. I even felt human again. Then I had my last exam and it was applied statistics. Had to put my brain on robot mode. I think I even did something good. But then, I often think I do good (I am a little arrogant and self complaisant).
“Beards are not so cool. Okay, it does look good on some. But finally, if you shave some of them guys, and cut their greasy man bun, what is left?” You need to know that in Paris, for the past x years, it’s all hipster shit everywhere. Even my friends fell into the well. Mado, the merriest girl I have ever met in my life, said to Greg, the hipsterest guy I have close to me: “But you know, a study showed that beard are as clean as a toilet bowl?” They aren’t best friends. I laughed and I thought of Greg’s girlfriend doing what girlfriends do. And I felt a bit dizzy. So I turned my thoughts to the mini feta cheese balls on the table. It goes very well with olive oil and cherry tomatoes.
“Oh Jess stop! You’re hungry again.“
The subway stops for awhile. It’s not my station. It stops for a forever minute…which feels like a whole forever hour. Forever. That’s so damn long. You have the time to thin weird things. And the guy with the girlfriend in Sweden is going on and on. Now he’s telling me that he hesitates between love at first sight and love that you build. He did build something solid with his girlfriend, but sometimes, in a stroke, in a subway, you meet someone and it’s BAM. Bam? I take off my glasses and look into his eyes. Voila. He’s quiet now.
Fuck, I missed my stop.