Not that I think I am stupid. But I was so far behind everybody that I could hardly keep up. All I missed was two hours! But it was like two weeks. That's how kick-ass my teacher is.

Let me just point something out to everybody. You know how if you are in beginning Spanish, or German, or Italian, or whatever, and you miss the day that everybody learns how to say "I think, you think, he thinks...", well, you can usually sort of figure it out anyway? You can use context and often connections to words you know in other languages in your own (like "penser" and "pensar" in French and Spanish respectively). That can be a handy thing, and even if you have to ask for a little bit of help, the rest sort of makes sense eventually.

But really, that doesn't happen in Arabic.

The words are just too damn foreign, and seem to have no phonetic relation to words I know in any of the romance languages or in English. None at all. It's really like learning a language entirely from scratch. Entirely.

So when we were doing a "review" of the 4,268 new things everyone seemed to learn last week, I just kept having to ask, "I'm sorry...um...takkatut...what does that word mean?"

And nevermind the fact that I had prepared THE WRONG FUCKING lesson. Well, that's not entirely untrue. I had prepared the right lesson, not knowing that there was yet another lesson to prepare on top of it. Keep in mind that each lesson takes about seven intense hours of work, and I spent all of my Friday night learning Arabic verbs. Not that I minded, it was fun. I just wish I had known that I still had more to prepare.

So let me let everybody who has never studied Arabic in on a little secret so that they can better understand the horror that was my experience in class today: text in Arabic isn't written using vowels. Apparently, this is not a problem because there are patterns to the language that make figuring out the vowels very obvious. Of course, those patterns have yet to reveal themselves to me. Regardless, our textbook has what are called "vocalised texts" in the back of the book with the vowels written in, but we're supposed to refer to them as little as possible.

So there I was, with an entirely new text in front of me for the first time, in an alphabet I still struggle with, and without the help of vowels. These are all words I have never seen before. And I was just supposed to just figure it out. All the texts are all dialogues. So here's what it said:

Jml: Hy Nfs, whr r y ff t?
Nfs: Jml! Hll. M gng t schl.
Jml: Wht d y d t schl?
Nfs: Stdy frnch.
Jml: S Frnch sy?
Nfs. Lrd n! It's vry dffclt. Stdy nd stdy bt nvr lrn mch. Its hplss. R y gng t schl t?
Jml. Lrd n! m tkng th bs t smr's hs. W r gng t th mvs.

Ok, so you can probably figure out some of it. But imagine it written in that beautiful Arabic calligraphy. And imagine that you are only somewhat familar with a few of the key words. And that everyone is waiting for you to read. Needless to say, it was a true disaster.

My teacher is the best though. He is very encouraging and relentless in his desire for us to learn. He agreed to continue on with us next year, keeping the same schedule and just moving along in the textbook. My classmates are all very motivated and kind, and we encourage one another in ways that I have never seen adults interact in the "professional" world. It's a great experience. So despite today's minor setbacks, I am still determined to continue.

I'm just going to study my ASS off for the next class.

Unfortunately, it also meant I ate very little. I wouldn't say it was to the point of starvation or anything, but it was definetly on the absurd side and I am sure I wasn't getting enough vitamins.

Once I got to college, I was too busy to eat. I mostly ate at work, and my healthy concoction usually included a bowl of beans and rice with some salsa added on top. It's amazingly filling, lasts all day, and tastes good. Thanks to a close friend and her unusually healthy eating habits, I also started to enjoy the wonders of full meals and Subway. And I also fell in love with burritos.

Now, in France, I would say I am a still a healthy bugger, but maybe less so. I avoid chips, excess fat, and three full meals a day (ok, that's not healthy, but whatever). But, on the other hand, I do indulge in an occasional dessert, and the availability of healthy foods in the center of Paris is comparably much lower than their availibity in the middle of sunny California.

Not that it's a real issue. I think eating is a state of mind. Diets don't technically work; what is usually needed is an entire change of lifestyle. It might be torture to be on a diet, but most people plan on going off the diet eventually and it is the reminder that the diet is temporary that keeps them going. As long as a diet is seen as a suspended amount of time outside of "normal" eating behavior, any weight loss accomplished during a diet is going to be put back on once the diet is over.

I do, however, think it's sometimes a good idea to inspect one's eating habits, to do a sort of check-up with the old mental food doctor to see how things are cooking.

So I'm going on the chopstick diet. Besides eating out, all food will be eaten with chopsticks. The only exception to this rule will be my required three yogurts a day.

I like bowl food. I like food eaten with chopsticks. I never cook big slabs of meat so that won't be a problem. It's not just Asian cooking that can be eaten with chopsticks. Everything can. Forcing myself to always eat with chopsticks will not only slow me down, but it will also require that I look at my food while eating it. In order to pick up that tomato and eat it, I will have to have a look-see into my bowl/onto my plate. This will make me more aware of the taste, and the pleasure I am getting from the food.

Really, people eat so quickly nowadays, just shoveling food into their mouths so that they can get back to work before the 14.00 meeting. I'm all about slowing it down.

And plus, it'll be fun. And preparation for my trip next year.

I wandered over slowly, bought my ticket and stepped into the theater. Parisians may or may not be familiar with this miniscule cinema, holding about 50 or 60 seats. The entrance is directly off the street, which I realized as I walked in is something I have never experienced before. Cinemas always feel like they are down in basements or hidden in back corners, but this one was right there : one step, you're off the sidewalk, another you're in front of the door, and another, you're in the cinema. Kinda kooky, really.

I was the first one to show up, and I sat square in the middle, two seats in from the aisle so that I could leave the seat on my right for my coat.

A young guy in his 20's, tall and handsome besides the fact that he was wearing shorts, walked in. I was glad to see hiim because I was a little worried that I would be the only person in the theater, or that even worse, the other person would be a sketchball. Young Handsome Guy looked normal, and I found his presence reassuring rather than worrisome. It's always a risk when you go to these rinky-dink theaters for random afternoon showings.

Seconds later, the film started, and I settled back in my seat. The cinema used one of those old style projectors that made the clack-clack-clack noise as the wheel turned, and left scratch marks up on the screen. Honestly, I don't believe I have seen a film like that since Ms. Orlyn showed us solar system and sex education movies in fifth grade. Somehow the turning sound of the machine went well with the ambiance in the hole-in-the-wall theater, and it even complimented the film in a rather quaint way.

All was fine and well, and I was enjoying the movie immensely. I always forget how much I love foreign - and by foreign I mean anything not American, British, French or Australian - cinema. And for some reason I always see blockbusters with friends, whereas the quiet, foreign films I tend to go to on my own. It's more pleasant that way, I feel. "In the Mood for Love" was turning out to be no exception.

But then halfway through, a new guy opened the door. A burst of sunlight and the sounds of traffic came in with him, and I couldn't help but wonder if he had paid his entrance or not (there's a little window in front of the door to the cinema, but when I first swung by and checked the movie times, nobody was there. In other words, the entrance to the movies is not exactly patrolled, and as long as not seeing the entire film is ok by you, you could technically walk into either of the two movie theaters without being stopped). The guy stood at the entrance for a moment, I suppose allowing his eyes to adjust, and then took a seat two rows behind me.

Weird, I thought, but thought little else.

Until he got up and sat next to me.

(About twenty minutes in, I had gotten extremely cold and had put my coat on, leaving the seat next to me emtpy. He chose to take it.)

Now remember. There is me, a young guy about four rows in front of me, and this new guy. Something just felt off. Of all the places to sit, you should never choose the seat right next to the young girl alone in the cinema. You just shouldn't. There were rows and rows of empty seats, plenty of seats along the aisles, at least five smack-in-the-middle-of-the-theater possibilities.

But no. The weirdo always has to sit next to me.

I love going to movies by myself, but I always have a moment of paranoia that I am going to get stuck sitting next to some old guy that likes to put his hands on strangers' knees. Or maybe some creepazoid who likes to tangle his legs up in those of the girl next to him, and then chalk it up to accident when she looks at him crossly or makes some move to call him out on it.

Or, as the case may be, it might be some fuckwad who likes to jerk off in the middle of a somber, beautiful Chinese movie about love. Or so I'm guessing.

So this guy sits next to me and my heart starts pounding. What the fuck is this freak thinking? You don't just sit next to someone in an empty theater. That's just not something you do. I tell myself to calm down, to stop being so paranoid, that I was overreacting. And by this point five minutes of the film have gone by and I have hardly even realized what has been happening on screen. I look over at the guy and he is looking right at me. And I notice that his jacket it on his lap, his left hand under his jacket. And he's just staring.

And I decide, you know what, I might be a paranoid freak, but normal people don't just sit down in a seat next to a girl seeing a movie alone on a Thursday afternoon and then STARE AT HER. And in the end, I don't really care if this guy thinks I am a paranoid wacko, because I certainly think that he's an absolute freak and that's enough of a reason for me to avoid him if I can.

So I move down a seat. Really, the options in that theater are rather slim as there is only one way of exiting the row (the other side has no aisle, it backs right up to the wall), which he has managed to block. He glances up at the screen, perhaps a bit surprised by my manoever, but it's not long before he's back to staring at me.

By now I'm not even enjoying the movie. And I'm afraid to try and get out of the row because God only knows what this guy will do as I try to leave. I'm having visions of him grabbing my ass or making me sit on his lap. Meanwhile, he keeps covering his mouth from his right arm, biting down on his sleeve to suppress any sort of noise he's going to make. Any sort of yelp, I'm assuming. It's at this point I decide he really is jerking off, and I literally want to hit the guy.

(It's about now that I remember how thankful I am that I am not alone in the theater. One person can make all the difference.)

Luckily, he suddenly bolts out of the front of the cinema and heads to the bathroom. I'm not even going to question what his interests were in going there, although I think it is by now quite clear.

I snag the opportunity and squeeze out of my row, taking the first seat in a little seperate side row with only two chairs that is right next to the exit. I hurriedly put my coat and purse down on the seat next to me. Pleased with my change of scenery, I watch the rest of the film in peace.

The guy comes back after about a minute and a half and looks around dumbly, realizing I have left the row. He sits back down and watches about three more minutes of the film before getting up again and leaving out the back exit for good.

Obviously, he hadn't come to watch a movie. Unfortunately, I had.

This Saturday, I'm going to head out after my morning class to see a movie I have been waiting to see for the last three years. It's a documentary on Noam Chomsky, and I haven't been able to get my hands on it. By miracle, it is showing in Paris. I don't know how many Chomsky fans there are in this city, but I'd be willing to bet that the film will show in another small, grungy theater with only a few people in the audience, in a similar situation as today. I just hope that it being a Saturday will attract a few more people to the theater.

I'm taking today's tiny-theater/weirdo-in-the-audience experience as a freak event. I'm not going to let it stop me from seeing afternoon movies by myself. I am, however, going to consider strategic seating each time I enter a new theater, and am going to think twice about being the first one in there. My new rule: at least three people in the theater at all times.

So after today, I'm a little more sketched out. But still, I'm not going to give up seeing this documentary. NOBODY better fuck up my happiness at finally being able to see this film.

Then again, maybe I am just misinterpreting how much sex appeal Noam has.

Fish Boy has what is perhaps the most unappealing pseudonym in the history of my thousands of pseudonyms, but all that seems to wash to the wayside when he asks how he can help me. Very tall, very thin, and bordering on pedophilically young, he's an attractive young lad alright. I still remember the first day I fell for him - something about the way he handed me my three filets of salmon and looked me softly in the eye spelled L-O-V-E.

Today, I felt the feeling was reciprocated. Fish Boy and Secondary Fish Boy (less attractive and generally less interesting) were joking behind the counter about something, and I saw Fish Boy's cute, shy sideways glance at me while he was giggling with his short little friend. Sure, maybe the sideways glance was just because I was the next person in line, but I felt there was more to it than that. And maybe he refers to everyone in line as "Next," but that could also be a way of metaphorically calling me his next girlfriend, the next love of his life, his next amour. Yes, I do believe it's true. Fish Boy and I are meant to be.

The problem is that Vegetable Boy seems to have claimed me already. At my grocery, you choose your fruits and vegetables and then take them to a little stand where men and women who happen to know all the produce codes await you to weigh your goods. They stand on little pedestals just behind the zucchini, and reach down to grab your plastic bags of carotts and apples like gods parting the clouds.

I've never been attracted to Vegetable Boy, but it's always nice to have men point out their affections for you. Because I'm not physically interested in him, it was a bearable shock the day I first saw him off his pedestal, and I towered above him by a good half a head. Vegetable Boy knows I'm foreign, knows I study, and knows I don't like fennel. To me, that means friendship. To him, I guess that means love. Never mind that half head between us.

I don't know how I can possibly express my love for Fish Boy under Vegetable Boy's cold jealous stare. I don't want to hurt my good, banana-weighing friend's feelings, but what is a girl to do when a boy looks her so deeply in the eyes when handing her 400 grams of shrimp? It just makes a girl melt.

But then the woman took him to the far back of the bus, about three rows behind me, where there is a "roundabout" of six seats that form a very wide U shape. She sat him down in the middle of this, upright despite his natural inclination to get horizontal. When he eventually slumped down, exhausted from fatigue, she became angry, made him sit upright and yelled at him to do so forecefully that many of the passangers turned around to see what the commotion was about. He began crying again and put his head down on the seat next to him, against her leg. Violently, she started shaking him and flopping him around on the back seats, eventually standing up and literally pounding him onto the seats like a doll.

I heard the racket but didn't recognize what was going on until all those people around her actually got up to CLEAR SPACE for the battle. It was then that I turned around and saw.

Horrified, I sat frozen for a moment, and then turned back, facing forward, not sure what to do.

Luckily, an older woman two seats away from the little boy took charge, and started loudly telling the young woman with the child that she had to stop. After another thirty seconds or so, she finally did.

I was really disturbed and flustered. I had never seen such open violence towards a little boy in a public place. The apathy of everyone around me was heartbreaking, and yet I realized that I had done nothing to stop the scene myself.

But then the two women began talking. I could only hear bits and pieces over the engine of the bus. The woman who had intervened said something along the lines of, "You can't treat him like that. When children are tired like that, you have to just let them sleep, no matter where they are. Children don't have the same stamina as we do." The woman with the child responded something unintelligible in a strange voice - it sounded almost as if she were deaf (which she couldn't have been because she was talking to the woman from across the bus). Much to my horror, the older woman continued to ask questions and it was revealed that the younger woman was not his mother, but was his babysitter. They continued to talk for a few minutes, and then the younger woman got off the bus, smiling and telling the little boy to "wave bye-bye to the nice lady." It was surreal, as if she hadn't just been beating this little child and that that "nice lady" hadn't just broken up the scene.

Afterwards, the older woman discussed the situation with her neighbor two seats away. I could understand their conversation much better because they were facing me, and I learned that the young woman with the child worked for an association of qualified nannies that are there to look over children while their parents are at work. Parents trust these organizations because their workers are certified, and because I suppose they think that finding someone from a program might be better than choosing a stranger off the street. Little do they know, it's practically the same thing.

I couldn't help but wonder how much this boy's parents know about what's going on. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about it. But I pray that whenever I do have children, that I will actually know and trust any caretaker of my child. I cannot imagine what his parents would do had they seen what happened today on the bus.

Damn it. No. And I told him so. I was doing important thinking. And I didn't appreciate being distracted. He was kind enough to leave me to my ponderings.

But then I had to switch sides of the street because a young group of 18-year-old-ish boys was gathered waiting for the night buses. Any group of young boys gathered in any location is an undesirable thing to encounter when you are a lone female, but such an encounter is even worse for a dripping wet slightly chesty one.

I switched sides at a safe distance so as to make my decision to walk on the opposite sidewalk somewhat normal. Scanning the upcoming sidewalk, I noticed two dark figures coming my way. I decided to wait it out. When they got within site enough so I could make out some body shape, I was relieved to realize they were a couple. Phew. I wouldn't have to switch sides. Again.

But wait, yes I would. Behind them was yet another raucous group of teenage boys, obviously drunk. These are the worst kind. They were carrying crepes : a surefire sign of heavy drinking on a Monday evening. Although I would have probably been capable of outwitting them or of just brushing off their comments, I decided avoidance would be the best strategy.

Switching sides, I stumbled right into two teenage boys asking me for a cigarette. I don't smoke, and I told them so. "But can't you stay and smoke with us anyway?" I really just don't have the time, boys. It's going on two now and it's raining. What the hell are you doing on a street corner?

After an hour of strategically planning my walk so as to be in maximum lighting with the most amount of pedestrians at all times while dodging shady characters (as well as what were probably perfectly kind and friendly testosterone types), I came to my street corner, full of brillant lights and plenty of late-night customers.

(It's always a relief to come up to my baby-sized street that sticks out awkwardly off a large neon-lit plaza. My walks home are fairly safe, moderatly well-lit, and generally pleasant. But sometimes, like this evening, people act strange, the air feels a bit peculiar, and I second-guess my decision to save those extra ten euros by not taking a cab. But I almost always opt for walking: more excercise, less money - even if it can be a bit stressful at times.)

As I walked up to the last half block to my building, it dawned on me that amidst my video-game-like street warrior walk home trying to avoid harassment and unwanted catcalls, propositions, and commentaries, I had totally forgotten what I had been so excited to have been thinking about when I had set out walking.

Oh right. How nice it would be to be a man. Walking home must be so pleasant. All that time to think to yourself. It must be just like walking in the daytime, only calmer and less crowded. How lovely.

1. Discuss Victor Hugo's Confessions

Victor Hugo thought he could see dead people. He was a very important author in France.

2. What was Charles de Gaulle's most important work of the 1960's?

Charles de Gaulle was an important French leader from the war era and on. He was for the developement of the nuclear bomb and was anti-Europe. He talked about this in something he wrote (did he write anything?) before he was outsted from the government by the back-stabbing French. (joke)

3. Discuss three works written by André Malraux.

There is a plaza named after André Malraux near the Louvre.

4. What was the major economic turn in France in 1983?

1983 marked the beginning of the European Economic Community (it was really 1959). Borders were opened. Plus, Spain and Portugal entered the European Union (that was in 1986).

We are a very creative bunch. We celebrated the fact with sangria.

We couldn't have studied for any of those questions. I wouldn't have ever guessed the questions that I had would be on the exam. Good thing I didn't waste my time learning valuable things I wouldn't have been tested on anyway.

1) got home and ate two vanilla yoghurts in a row
2) finished the cashews
3) got in bed to finish reading one of the plays I am being tested on tomorrow
4) nodded off at 21.00
5) woke up at 3.30
6) brushed my teeth
7) wrote this

I find it entertaining that I will be off to an exam in three hours, and that I'm not really sure if I can muster up any more desire to sleep. This should be interesting. I didn't mean to do it.

I guess I'll go back to reading that play I was supposed to finish. My alarm is set for three hours from now. I am wide awake. And all the cashews are gone.

I remember the first time I swore in front of my mom. We were watching "The Fugitive" in a movie theater - I must have been about 15 - and a very suspenseful moment was happening on-screen. I ducked down and said "Oh shit, now he's going to go in there and find..."

But I couldn't finish my sentence because I had accidently sworn. It was traumatizing.

So when I asked Dad an obvious question one day when I was 17 or 18, something to the tune of "Is relaxation defined by you as sitting in our jacuzzi-like bathtub with a beer or two and some sports program turned up way loudly on the 1984 little television still using antennas for reception while the rest of the family tries to drown out the sounds of the commentators by playing The Eagles or some equally cheesy band at high volumes?" and Dad answered, "Does a bear shit in the woods?" well, I just about thought that was my ticket to freedom. Dad had given me the greenlight. I could swear.

Maybe not around him though. Maybe not certain swear words. And maybe not profusely, but an occasional no-no could slip out somewhat unnoticed, provided it was of the "light" variety. Or at least "light" swears could be used without causing extreme offense.

Flashforward to 2003. I'm supposedly all grown up. My parents and I get along well, I think. I told my mom once that she is not only my mom but also my friend, and I meant it. I'm more open with them about a lot of things, and I guess mentally they've gone from being "My Parents: The Institution" to being actual people with actual feelings. And they know a bit more about me, too, especially now that they've both apparently taken to reading this site (Hi guys) without my having known about their patronage.

But regardless, I still don't feel like I can swear in front of them.

The Boy has learned a variety of quality swears from yours truly. His English is broken and limping, but he sure can say "Shit!" at appropriate moments. Like the first time I introduced him to my parents, warning him that swear words are known as such because they're slightly taboo. No matter, the first thing he said to them, in reference to the fact that there was at least a 20 minute wait for a table at the restaurant we wanted to go to, was "Oh shit."

They laughed as kind, giving parents would and I smiled and said, "I taught him that." Probably not true, I think Hollywood did (damn those R-rated movies again), but I doubt I helped matters any.

Other helpful expressions - vulgar or not - I have made familiar to him via frequent use around the house: Oh my God!, What the fuck?, Fuck off, That's bullshit, You're full of shit, Holy shit, whatever, what-the-fuck-ever, dickwad, asshole, jackass...

Bizarrely enough, I'm anti-swearing in French. My family had a German exchange student live with us for a year when I was 17. The two of us went to high school together. And every time she swore, I cringed. It just didn't sound right coming from a German mouth. If any of you have seen "Before Sunrise" (quality flick, uh-huh) and know of the excessive use of the word "fuck" by the Frenchie in the film, you might relate.

So I swear a lot in English instead. I'll chatter, chatter, chatter in French, and if a swear is needed, I say it in English. People always laugh at this the first time it happens, and then just let it slide after that. I suppose I sound more ridiculous doing that than just swearing in French, but...eh...I just can't bring myself to do it.

Plus, the French swearing vocabulary sucks. I've gone over this with a friend of mine, who speaks equally good French and swears equally as well in English.

Together, we have come to the conclusion that:
For words like dick, dickhead, dickwad, jerk, asshole, jackass, dumbass, dumbfuck, dork, idiot, stupid ass motherfucker, and so on, the French only seem to have one term: pauvre con. I keep describing the nuances between, say, a dickhead and a dumbass, but they just keep saying, "No, we woud zay zat as a pauvre con."

What about the girly end of the spectrum? Anything in English relating to promiscuity (always interesting how many words there are for asshole-like guys versus slutty girls...cultural reflection, I suppose) - ho, skank, skanky ho, crack ho, whore, slut, ho-bag, floozy - all just get reduced to the boring and uninventive pute.

I suppose I am really only hanging on to English for its expressive bad words. I just can't translate "He's one crazy-ass motherfucker but his chick is a skanky-ass ho" into French properly. It would turn into, roughly, "He's a crazy guy but his woman is a whore." Does that do the English version justice? Really, now.

While watching "8 Mile" (yet another impressive film, uh-huh), I noticed that no matter how creative the swearing might have been in the original English version, everything was always reduced to three key swear words in French: merde and all its offshoots, putain and its mini-rainbow of colors, and...well, shit, you know what? There are only two. And what's the big insult in French? Putain de merde. They couldn't even come up with The Mother of All Insults. They just think that using the two swears back-to-back suffices. I have issues with such slim pickin's in the swearing department at Frenchmart.

So I gotta clear the air here a little bit. I swear. A lot. In English. And I try to keep it tame when I am talking to my parents, but I'm not going to keep it tame on the web site.

So Mom and Dad - read at your own risk. I hope you both still love me.

How many drugs did those guys take to come up with that story?

I have another question. Why does Trinity have to be so annoying? "I love you, Neo. I love you..." Blah. The movie was good when it was all hard and green and fast-paced and violent. Why ruin it with some cheesy skinny-ass girl with badly slicked-back hair breathing lovey-dovey statements to her man's body while he himself is still stuck in the Matrix? And come on. Do you think her kiss would really save him? What an unappreciated moment of girly bullshit.

The Oracle is my favorite character in the whole flick. Well, The Oracle and Tank. I hope he makes it to Reloaded. He's got a great smile.

I also like the whole humans-are-viruses/humans-live-off-their-own-unhappiness bit. Nice slant, Wachowski brothers.

Does anybody speak Polish? I'm wondering what "ski" means. Because when I went to see "The Pianist," I noticed that everybody's last name ended in "ski" in the credits list. I figure it means "son," just like how in English last names you have so many Johnsons and Michaelsons and all like that because those people's names, at base, are from "Son of John" and "Son of Michael" and the rest. So maybe the Wachowski Brothers are the sons of Wachow. The skis of Wachow.

I once came up with a sci-fi story similar to the idea behind "The Matrix" a few years ago that I actually started writing, but then gave up on when the process got difficult. I'll have to pick up some William Gibson novels or something because I have never read sci-fi. I don't really feel right just up and writing a whole sci-fi novel without ever having read one, you know? I should educate myself on such matters, first.

But my book is going to be kick ass whenever it does actually get done. I hope nobody says I'm just copping off the Matrix, because I had the idea long beforehand. I can't tell you what it is here, because who knows who's reading this thing and is going to steal my idea and then write the book before I do and then accuse me of plagiarism when I finally write my own and get it published. Yes, I am paranoid.

My book idea is Matrix-like, but not exactly the same. I'll get cracking on it again when I am done with finals, which are Saturday, Monday, and Wednesday of this week.

I don't actually think it will get published, but I have recently discovered that speaking in the future or near-future tense (as opposed to the conditional or in hypothetical phrases) and in affirmative sentences ("My book is going to kick ass" instead of "My book would kick ass" or "Were my book to kick ass") really does do a lot for the power of believing in personal projects. So my book will be done sometime. I'll just have to write it up, first. You'll like it. I know you will.

On a side note, all of Parisian transportation is on strike. I find it fun and exciting, and am praying that my Saturday final gets cancelled because of it. How great would that be. How great that WILL be. Then I would go to Arabic class instead, calmly and with a smile on my face. Or wait, then I WILL go back to Arabic class instead, calmly and with a smile on my face.

Let's see what the future holds.

Second side note, Mom's wallet was found on some random street about a ten minute walk from my house. A little boy found it and then handed it to an American woman that lives in his building. She then called my mom at work (card in the wallet indicated as such), and I am to call this American chick tomorrow to see if we can't arrange for me to pick up the wallet. It's reassuring to know that there are still nice people in the world, willing to go that extra mile to call some American lady at the office to tell her they found her wallet.

I'm off to cram for my finals. Again. If I were Neo and I just found out I had super powers and was just living in the Matrix, well, I'd find a way to stop the exams just like Neo can stop bullets.

We were asked to seat ourselves in the "waiting area" that was composed of one big wooden desk and several wheeled office chairs - each missing wheels. The officer I first spoke to informed me that they were in the middle of a shift change, but that someone would be with us in ten minutes.

Half an hour later, we were still waiting. I went up to the front desk where an older police officer was tediosly writing things down a registry. I asked him if we could maybe get some help, and that we had been waiting for thirty minutes. Officers were swarming around, laughing and giggling and wishing one another a good day. The older man looked at me and said, "It's to make a theft claim?" I nodded. "Yeah, just wait, ok? Can't you see there's nobody here?"

It looked to me like there were over fifteen officers there, but I guess he was the authority on the matter.

Finally, after another ten minutes, we sat down in front of machine (that looked like it was from 1986) with a rather slow policeman to go over the events. They were explained in minute detail, and he listened intentlly, checking and triple checking such essential facts as "Did she notice her wallet was missing before or after buying her train tickets?" I clarified by reminding him that it's hard to buy train tickets with a missing wallet.

And I shit you not, the officer typed out the entire claim with one. lone. index. finger. Each word was spelled out painfully and ever so slowly, drawing out what should have been a five-minute ordeal to almost thirty. While his right index finger danced slowly across the dirty keyboard, his left one followed line-by-line a hand-written guide to making a claim scrawled across a piece of crumpled, folded paper that had obviously been used several times over the last several years. I suppose the idea of making a typed-up version has yet to occur to them, or maybe my officer friend is working on one off-hours but has yet to complete it (projected completion: January 2006).

While my Mom was siging the papers that my trusty yet idiotic policeman had so painstakingly assembled, I went to talk to the head of police to ask if we could call the train station to see if any wallets had been found. A lost and found of sorts.

He looked at me cross-eyed through his glasses that magnified his already buggy eyes, and said, "I don't understand what you want." Luckily a younger, more with-it officer standing by happened to have listened in, and jumped at the opportunity to make himself useful. He asked the police chief where the phone list was, and the chief indicated to a cut-out piece of cardboard sitting behind the filing system to my right. The younger cop pulled it out, and on the front was taped a white sheet of paper with numbers written chaotically all over it. Amongst the chaos, he managed to find the number to the lost and found.

All in all, it was probably a worthless trip, as most likely the wallet won't turn up. And, if it did, the police would probably manage to lose it somehow. However, I told my parents that this was getting to know the "Real Paris," the scenic route for experienced, off-the-beaten path travelers like themselves.

And my mom got a five-page souvenir, too: a stolen property claim.

Anyway. I went from office to office and finally got what I had to get done, and then was told that all of my efforts were in vain because I "didn't meet the requirements." So not true, and I argued with the woman sitting at her new Ikea desk for a few minutes before she finally said, "Well, it doesn't really matter if you talk to me about it, I'm not even the one who decides these things. All I do is send your file over to (a fourth random office). If you really have issues with this, you should talk to them."

So then why the hell are you acting like you're the authority on the matter, bitch?

In all, after two days of running around Paris looking for all of these offices (I have literally been to six in 48 hours, just to hand over a ten-page file), I was pretty bitter. Bitter at having some snot-nosed secretary tell me that "The Nude in Western Art" might have been an interesting class at college, but it won't count for anything in France. Bitter at having her tell me that I would get a response in the mail about my candidature in four weeks. Or maybe six. Bitter that she "really couldn't tell me when, because that's their affair over in (office #2,786)."

Regardless, I stepped out of that particular office into the freezing cold rain. Somehow I was glad it was raining : it's better to be in a foul mood in foul weather.

I waited for the 89 bus for 12 minutes. I rode it one stop (two blocks) and the busdriver stopped the bus and said, "The line stops here today. There are protests blocking the rest of the route."

Oh my God, this country!!! What the hell? Why am I here when it seems like the bitchy adminstrative masses are doing everything in their power to keep me out? When even the BUSES are against me? Should I just give up? Go home? I was fuming - I hadn't eaten all day, was in a hurry, and now had to walk home in the rain. And I don't even own a raincoat.

More normal commute is a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens, but that takes me half an hour, forty minutes. I had wanted to avoid it. But once the bus shut down, I had no choice - time crunch and all, I was going on foot.

I stepped into the Gardens and the sounds of the outside world faded to soft. Somehow the rain had made everything brighter. I looked up for the first time since beginning my daily walks through the Gardens and saw the trees were exploding with vibrant green. Each leaf was a stroke of brilliant color splashed against a deep, grey sky. I suddenly realized the last time I had noticed the leaves was when they had been turning brown, orange, yellow. Dropping one by one and cackling under my feet.

Falling today were only small, pink flowers that have been budding alongside the trees' leaves. They were scattered along benches and newly restored statues. One fell on my sleeve.

The people with me were old men and women taking slow, steady strolls through the park. How odd they would be the only ones willing to walk in the rain.

I closed my eyes. Listening, I heard the rain drops falling lightly on the leaves above me. The sound of pebbles under someone's foot. My right pant leg dragging on the ground. A little girl's giggle. Old men playing pétanque, their clacking metal balls making loud thuds when they hit the earth. But mostly, I heard the muffled quiet of a rainy afternoon in the park.

It smelled like rain and fresh dirt. Thunderstorms and sandboxes.

Coming out of the Gardens on the south side, I was suddenly bombarded with colors and sounds at the exit gate. Kids were getting out of school, excitedly telling their parents or babysitters or friends about whatever happened that day as they entered my rainy sanctuary. A little sister of one of them was absentmindedly walking along with chocolate on her chin. Two boys raced one another up the street. I followed, watching their plastic backpacks approach the boulevard a few blocks away.

I dropped into the local supermarket to pick up some orange juice and lettuce. Two Swedish women, who looked like sisters, casually did their shopping. A young woman yelled at her boyfriend on her cell phone inside the sullen store: "No, if you want to invite her, fine. But I'm not going to be very nice to her. Why can't you just invite people I like?" I wandered over to the dish soap, REM was on the radio. "That's me in the corner..." I sang along despite myself. The guy next to me looking at Kleenex stopped, looked straight at me, and sang, "That's me in the spot. light. Losing my religion." We both giggled and kept shopping.

So yeah. I remembered why I want to be here. It doesn't matter how many offices they send me to.

1. Are there any confrontations you have been avoiding that you know you will eventually have to deal with? What's that all about?

Yes, most certainly. Sometimes I avoid confrontation because it's honestly better for everyone involved. And sometimes I avoid it because I don't really know how to go about it, and so instead all I do is let it eat me away from the inside. For both of those cases, I have corresponding stories.

I'm actually more confrontational now that I have a boyfriend who honestly doesn't get the whole I-have-feelings thing sometimes. He's taught me to voice my discontent, which is actually an incredibly valuable lesson that I am grateful for - even if I wish I had learned it for other reasons.

2. When was the last time you surprised yourself by being more brave than you ever thought you could be?

I can't answer that on the site without upsetting some people close to me, but I would say it was two or three months ago. I surprise myself in small ways every day (like when I didn't take any shit from that old lady behind me in line at the grocery store today) but I really surprised myself a lot just a few months ago.

3. You know that sickly feeling you get when are speeding and out of the corner of your eye you realize you just passed a hidden police car? It is that "deer-caught-in-the-headlights" feeling, where you are so busted there is no way out. When was the last time you were in a situation like that?

I don't remember. I don't drive, so that's out. I haven't gotten in trouble with the law since I stopped driving. I haven't talked shit about any of my friends, teachers, or schoolmates, so that's not an option. This is making me sound like a little angel. Really, I don't remember.

4. One of the things I've had to do recently, is clean out my attic. I have an amazing amount of things I've collected over the years, and I am almost embarrassed that I still have so much of it. I realized that I may as well sell it, since it does me no good in the attic, and when I die, my family will probably sell it for a dollar a pound at a garage sale anyway. May as well enjoy the money now. Do you have any things stored away that you just can't get rid of but will probably of no sentimental value to anyone once you are gone? Why do we hang on to that stuff? Do you think you could sell or auction it off?

Well, when I moved to France I got rid of the majority of that shit. I had sooo much crap. I was a professional crap collector, in all honesty. This is most likely associated with my love of clutter. At any rate, when I moved here, my full apartment in California and my bedroom back at my parents' house was reduced to two small office-file-sized boxes. They are in the attic at my parents' and are mainly filled with photographs and diaries. I think those will probably mean something to people once I'm gone.

As for the CRAP I have managed to collect over here, in all honesty I have made loads of progress since my California days in terms of the sheer amount of it. I simply can't hang on to stuff here because my apartment is too small. I still have some, but I believe my progress can be seen by the simple fact that I no longer have a "junk drawer" (because I only have four drawers, and every drawer counts!) nor do I throw crap under my bed (I have a low futon...no space for crap, just collapsable suitcases). Progress, my friend. Progress.

Were I ever to move away from France, though, I would hold one helluva book sale, that's for damn sure.

5. I've become the resident Handler at the house. Got bugs? Call me! Flies, ants, spiders, I'm your man. Vomit? Dog Poo? Toilet overflow? Yep, I get it all clean. Not much bothers me in that area, and I am glad really to be someone you can rely on. But the one thing that does make me squirm are injuries. Stitches, incisions, bloody puss-laden bandages, heavily scabbed areas, all that just about does me in. What are some of the things you have a strong stomach for, and what are some of the things that can turn your stomach?

I'm the opposite: personal injuries and blood don't really bother me. I got an introduction to that when a hammer fell on my head when I was seven (someday a story to be told here), as well as when my boyfriend got into a motorcycle accident two years ago and I had literally pull chunks of road out of his arm. Good thing he was on painkillers; I'm no nurse.

But puke. I literally start shaking at the sight of it. When I hear people throwing up, my heart starts beating quickly and I get all clammy. I'm hoping that I won't get morning sickness when I'm pregnant, and that baby puke will warm me up for the real deal so that I'm not a freak case when my kids get the flu. Baby puke for some reason doesn't bother me at all. It's once the kid starts hacking up chunks that I get all floppy and woozy feeling.

6. I am at the point where I am going to have to make some tough decisions about the future of this blog. I think this sort of moment comes to all bloggers at some point. For me, I am not very good at managing my obsessions (read as: things I enjoy passionately). Eventually they get too much focus and something that once was good begins to impact my life in negative ways. Something's got to give. Have you ever been involved in an experience that started out as something good and enjoyable but eventually became destructive and bad for your health (mentally or physically)?

Drugs. (I really hope my parents aren't reading this, but if they are, know that I haven't touched the stuff in a looong time.)

7. Do you believe in evolution or creationism or something else?

I believe in evolution in that off-hand way that most people do. As in, yes, natural selection makes sense, and sure, we could have come from the sea. I'm no expert though. If I start to think about this type of thing too much, it really trips me out. I have enough trouble dealing with my bank account.

PS It occured to me after posting that it's now actually Tuesday (1.35 am) but just go with me here, everybody.

For a decade with such great dance music, did any good dance moves come out of the 80's?

If you watch typical 80's flicks, the dancing is just atrocious whereas the music kicks ass in the uniquely 80's way. The inverse is the case with 70's flicks according to most people, although I am a huge disco advocate so obviously I think that BOTH the dancing and the music are top notch. But 80's dancing? Horrible stuff. People are doing that tap one foot in front of the opposing foot, shift weight, repeat with opposite foot, shift weight, repeat thing. Not a fan. How could people not have just gone wild during "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun?" Shit, if youngsters found a way to dance to Nirvana less than ten years later, I take no excuses for 80's teenagers' inability to dance (well) to Cyndi.

Unfortunately, for the decade of my childhood and MTV's birth, the only dance move I could think of was the Running Man, which technically didn't even have its heyday until the early 90's. Oh, and the Moonwalk, of course, but that's not the type of dance you do in front of your mirror alone in your room to check out your mad skillz.

Not that I do that.

Do you guys remember the beginning to "In Living Color?" I so wanted to be a Fly Girl. That really, really didn't happen.