When they sold me my car, they neglected to warn me about several things.
Repairs, replacements, the usual used-car-salesman stuff, but there's one thing I wasn't expecting.
To miss the buzz.
Dinner chez Benoit's, an ex-coworker, waiting for his visa to run out, urging me to go to Paris so that we can continue our debaucheries.
When his cheeks get all rosy with wine, he's actually very pretty...
Tsk.
I left my car at home.
Alors, four of us managed somehow to consume -- an entire stew, an avocado-mushroom-cherry-tomato salad, a whole wheel of cheese and a "gateau � la semoule" that tastes like really vanilla-y rice pudding but made with couscous.
On top of that, there were the three bottles of wine, a nice light Pinot Noir for the salad, a St-Emillion that he brought for me on his last trip to france, and a Minervois to go with the cheese and dessert.
There were aperitifs, of course, Pastis and my Vodka-Ginseng concoctions, and my cherry liqueur and porto for dessert...
Brazilian coffee, and every blowjob joke we could muster.
Eventually we degraded into JeanClaudeVanDamme jokes, and plans to set up our own bordello with complimentary blowjobs.
We tried spitting from his twenty-first-floor balcony, but couldn't manage to hit anyone.
I am very tired, very drunk. I'll correct the typos in the morning.
Turns out the contract that I got from Planaxis is better than I thought, they were talking net salary, not brut...
Oh dear.
Guess I have to go now, hunh?
Oh dear...
I wonder whether it's the nip in the air and the last dregs of St-Emillion that are making my head spin... Or...
Hey Kegboy I'd link you, but you'll have to update more often first. Once a year just don't cut it for me, y'know? I'm a three-times-a-night kinda gal.
So I guess it's Paris... Far away from the parents, the worn-out bars, the sprawling concrete.
Urine-soaked streets, I'll be dreaming of you tonight. Of the jugglers, and my illustrious cousins - the only family I've ever respected, and of five-week-vacations.
G'night Montr�al, bonjour Paris...
On verra. On y songera. Mais d'abord, on s'accroupira sur le lit pis on perdera vite la capacit� de garder les yeux ouverts...
C'est pas les larmes qui coulent, c'est la pluie du printemps de ma vie.