Thursday, September 15, 2005

French Noise

Swiss Alps threw a fiver into my purse. He says I'm not looking well, that I should eat. I threw it back, assuring him I'm fine, that I just have to make it through this month before my bank account is refilled again. Financial anorexia turned into nutritional anorexia and has, therefore, made me sick.

Update: Apparently inhaling three consecutive pizzas will make you sick too.

***

HaiPhia agreed to tutor me in French. She and her boyfriend just broke up and I thought, what an opportunity! Newly scorned women always have pent-up energy to burn.

***

It's orientation week and the party's literally right outside my doorstep. Established acts were hopping and hollering on stage, their beerffee mugs (coffee mugs filled with beer) hanging not-so-discreetly at their sides. I caught up with quite a few people from last year; many friends, more acquaintances, and a rare stalker or few.

When did spring-loaded limbs become the new cock? I don't know whether it's a childish rebellion thing or a novelty thing or perhaps a brain damage thing, but chicks out here throw themselves at hippie guys who play hackey sack. These girls with ra-ra-power slogans emblazoned on their molehill chests turn into quivering vaginas when they're introduced to M. Biologique (who, might I add, just loves the attention). I don't know how to act in these types of situations, so I resort to pimping him out or pretend I'm merely a passing acquaintance. It's my defence mechanism for jealousy (an emotion I did not encounter at all before him). Yet, by doing so, I'm constantly subjected to hearing what they have to say about him, their incessant flattery and girlish giggling. I told him we were going to the movies on Sunday amidst his party of two. "He has to make room for you in his schedule because he's so popular, right [M. Biologique]?" explained the bandau-wearing babe with only a hint of irony. "Forget it," I said, letting out a sigh and walking away. Hours later, I bumped into Elmeraler (who, for the record, has been trying to get inside my pants since freshman year). An overall catch and the only mutual acquaintance of M. Biologique's that, dare I say, threatens the hold he has on his "property." Our excess PDA forced the hippie to remove himself from our presence, taking a well-earned breather from an entire day's worth of sack playing. It wasn't until later, wandering off and alone, did M. Biologique take me by the hand and try dancing with me. Are you drunk? I gestured. Have you been drinking? He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. I have to put my groceries away, I said matter-of-factly, pointing to the bags in my hand. He shook his head, so I pulled my wrist from his grasp and left his twirling on the street alone (not for long, I presume. That stinkin' flirt).

I've decided to give M. Biologique his ultimatum this Sunday. Subtle distancing techniques evidently do not work when the offender refuses to play by the rules. So I'm forced to give him the heave ho. M. Biologique might be the only man I've ever had insurmountable feelings for, but I'm ready for soup. And perhaps, in time, I will appreciate the predictibility of positivity that comes with Elmeraler's company.

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