Thursday, May 12, 2005


I've been waking up before sunrise for the past week, drooling and screaming at invisible demons, begging to be gunned down by a pack of hungry Bolivian marauders to put an end to my misery. The pain in my throat becomes unbearable that time of the day. Dreams come sewn together like a roll of toilet paper whether or not I wake up in the middle of an active one, the characters left frozen in their roles until I manage to return, a few agony-saturated minutes later, to carry forth the storyline between a nosy neighbour and child:

"JuanaMachine is gay. I've heard the groans of other men coming from his studio loft and once caught him wearing a silk komono as he smoked a Parisien*."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner, little girl of 12 wearing tweeds and a matching newspaper boy cap?!"


Did not get enough sleep last night (head unscrewed during film class). Missed half the teacher's lecture about the aesthetics of Luc Besson (I'm also nodding away right now).

I went over to M. Biologique's this morning determined to help him pack so he could avoid the whole rush, rush, foul mood scenerio I bitterly put up with. Except, once he opened the door, my go-getting became no-getting and we both quietly slipped into his bed to sleep. Have I mentioned I've been living on my couch for the past month because rotting food has become a minor health hazard capable of rendering me sterile and blind sooner than it will take to send a sink full of ketchup-stained plates and Nutella-stained everything else to the carwash? So feeling a real headboard felt marvelous.

Staring into his fridge and being greeted by the glimmer of shiny shelves, I took him out for breakfast. He felt a pang for France when we passed this tiny mom 'n pop resto hidden among other, non-descriptive establishments. I quickly made my way out, but relented to return when he stopped badgering me just long enough to hear me admit defeat:

"Mr. Sub? Dim sum? ... Burger King?"

I'm sort of looking forward to M. Biologique leaving. He was right the first time: we do spend a lot of time together. I mean, what do you call an irregular friendship based on being each other's automatic go-tos for every question and response?

A pararriage?


*As in, an actual brand of cigarettes from Switzerland. Not kinkilicious, French-speaking homosexual - not this time, anyway.

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