While both the journey to Versailles and Lisa tried to murder me today, I refuse to be conquered or killed. If I want to do something badly enough, I'll make it happen. Just a shout out to my would-be murderess: Thanks for letting me call that Uber so I wouldn't go on a tri-state (or whatever its French equivalency is) murder spree.
Funny how one day can begin with screaming on the bottom floor of a Parisian metro because you're lost and end by giving cheek kisses to an Italian man who drew your portrait in the courtyard of the Notre Dame. While I prefer life to be comprised solely of moments like the latter, the former make the day so much sweeter in the end.
I knew I would mess up and skip a day of blogging. What can I say? I'm tired. We intended on waking up early to head over to the Louvre before our lunch reservation. Let's just say that us waking up at ten and getting lost in the metro for 20 minutes didn't help in getting any of that accomplished. What's that saying about the best laid plans of mice and men? Don't bother getting attached to plans, because they're for sure gonna change.
We won't discuss the many ways in which I made an ass out of myself today. While we all know how funny it would be to talk about that waiter taking pity on me when I needed a cup of coffee that I couldn't order properly. Or the woman I seemed to scare out of a wine store with my bad French. We're beyond all that. We've grown. It's the Summer of Yes. We're positive now. Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
I never thought I'd make it to France. Even as the leaving date grew closer, it didn't seem like I was actually going to get on a plane and leave the country. When Dad drove me to the airport, it didn't seem real. When I got my boarding pass, it didn't seem real. When I had to get a pat down because the metal detector thought I was packing some heat, it didn't seem real. When I got on the plane, it didn't seem real. When I landed, it didn't seem real. But when I was waiting in a kilometer long customs line? You bet your ass it was real then.
For months and months and months I've tried to get my shitty short stories published. They haven't been (because they're shitty, obviously). So, in an attempt to move some of them out into the world, I give you this. Surrealist fiction (which is what I want to call this) is not my wheelhouse, but it was sweet, sweet torture to write. Thank you for reading, as always!