Only the Lonely

Next time you visit Aix and are blood thirsty, go to the Bulldogge for a burger and fries. If there isn’t crushed velvet, it feels like there should be, and there are real live neighborhood Bulldogs who stop by to sniff you.

Where I studyAfter eating my third dinner, I stuffed my useless body into a dress that makes me feel self-conscious on a good day. Got drunk, went to a bar, got drunk. Best/only pick-up line that’s been used on me: “They say I’ve got Georgia on my mind? Well… I’ve got Philadelphia on my mind.” This is all said in a monotone French accent, which naturally leads to a low-level intellectual discussion of American politics.
“I’m celibate.”
“Oh yes, I’m single too.”
Our relationship ends with my cigarette. I quit smoking, but have found that bumming smokes is the most efficient/only way to calm the fuck down and start conversations with the French. I only have a few years of youth to make use of this trick, so I’m exploiting the shit out of it.
On my first French Valentine’s Day my favorite professor, Monsieur Tissot, explained in scientific terms why human beings are foolish to limit themselves to one lover (hormones, he says, expire after three years). The man (well, he is) has three girlfriends—the serious one, the funny one, the mysterious one. That sounds like a nightmare to me, I have a hard enough time m’aimant.
I woke up bloated, hairy, and hungover. Oliver slept with me, and was probably regretting it.

What’s good: I heard a rumor of casual mention of my name by someone close to my heart, my one true love divided. It caused a happiness that caught me off-guard.
Well, hope everyone’s healthy this suicide winter. Miss you. Maintenant, time to fix up.

Oliver