American Barbaric

When I was 12 years old, I stole a bottle of pills marked, Red Hot Sexy from a road side tourist shop that specialized in plastic crap for people with bratty kids. I selected it from among a rack full of other types of pills because I could tell by the fancy font that these would improve my as then latent sex drive. Also, they were red. They turned out to be cinnamon flavored candy in a stolen jar. Such a novelty, that. People like to tell you the oldest profession is prostitution, but I have it on good authority that the oldest profession is in fact false advertisement.
I was too sick to participate in the karaoke ring of awesome. Muy triste. But all though I haven't been blogging much, I sure has been jogging much. That's relevant too, because I say so. One thing I don't like about France is that they don't have like, CVS or RightAid or whatever they call it in your town. I have to go and talk to the pharmacist, who for some reason is more of a doctor than a bottle-filler, and oh, I forgot, I have to go talk to the pharmacist, IN FRENCH... which is more of  it's own language than, say, loud, slow English. They refer to the drugs by their proper names in lieu of the brands we know and love and worst of all, it's like you're buying  a car. I can't just go in there and be like, "Hmm, I'll take 12 kinds of vitamins, two amino boosters, four kinds of day and night quill and  5 sorts of cough drops," right off the shelf, as I want. Nope. No soup for you. Instead they're like, "You wanted a fucking scooter? No, you don't want a fuckin scooter, you want a Peugeot, merde."  And these mofos don't even mean bikes. (The whole time they say this shit in French, mind.)
Français, well I'm getting better, I guess.  I'm sort of like the little Salvadoran kid who's mom talks to them in Spanish and only knows how to respond back in Inglés. I may never get another haircut because that would mean speaking in French. Maybe even small-talking. And not even with a beer. (!!)
Colocation is what they call flat sharing here. So, instead of flatmates, I have colocs. I super dig mine to the max. I started collecting video of them which makes me a little sad because it admits that I know the magic can't last.  One day, this here and now will be little more than a fond memory and a video montage. Le sigh. But damn, it's fun. We have a dinner together once a week, go through bread and wine like woah and hang out every night. Now they want to play beer pong. It makes my heart swell with nationalism.
And my country is such a thing to be proud of, am I right? Some fuck-up who got kicked out of community college and rejected from the army was allowed to own and operate a hand gun. He also somehow obtained non-civilian issue extended clips. (Previously banned, and reserved for law enforcement officials, officially.)  Best of all, Glock sales are up now.

Fuckity fuck, America. Fuck.

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