no macarons

i didn't find the macarons. presumably because, well, i think i walked into the wrong building. but i did buy a bottle of vodka, a papaya, tim tams, and a block of dark chocolate toblerone. so i guess i officially have food in the apartment.

your oakleyways or your life

was able to sleep past 7 am for my first time here. becoming a real local. was woken by my work superiors, demanding to borrow my ugly oakleyways. i only value them because they are valuable $cha-ching. woke up to a deluge of wonderful e-mails from friends! very excited should sleep in more often

pass me to dena

i need macarons stat

i've been looking at pictures of them online and my heart has been palpatating

a bakery sort of nearby supposedly sells them and i'm going to go tomorrow on my last day off

letters from abroad

Final thoughts: the men here are SIGNIFICANTLY better looking than in LA. I didn't want to jump to any rash conclusions because of one or two handsome men, so I gave it a good long while. But damn, ladies. I want to jump the bones of every 20th guy I see. And they're so tall and strapping! They have to bend over to fit in the underground cars! A lot of them! We ain't feeding 'em right back home or something because this is what men should be.

mademoiselle

Her Russian vocabulary consisted, I know, of one short word, the same solitary word that years later she was to take back to Switzerland. This word, which in her pronunciation may be phonetically rendered as 'giddy-eh' (actually it is gde with e as in 'yet'), meant 'Where?' And that was a good deal. Uttered by her like the raucous cry of some lost bird, it accumulated such interrogatory force that it sufficed for all her needs. 'Giddy-eh? Giddy-eh?' she would wail, not only to find out her whereabouts but also to express supreme misery: the fact that she was a stranger, shipwrecked, penniless, ailing, in search of the blessed land where at least she would be understood.

stole this

Blessed are those that sneeze a lot.

witch doctor

antibiotical

nom. 2 in the couff couff series

my muvee, betch

i've been listening to choral music almost exclusively since watching the philadelphia boys choir & chorale perform two days ago. we used to sing like this, which has been painfully home-set to the footsteps of khenkel's and mine in space



this is the first song i ever learned. it's about dying. when i hear it i can actually smell my freshman apartment and feel the sheer death terror of being musically incompetent.

ey

the canada pavilion is superior because the staff is made up of beautiful beautiful half-asians wearing uniforms designed by cirque du soleil

day off

this wet cough could be considered a death rattle.

"If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business." - thoreau

a little night music

when i receive an assignment, and the addendum is to "be creative," i can only frown

i took a real picture of myself coughing.

one of my higher-ups at work today suggested seeing a doctor

but much as in the civil war,

i believe survival rates are much higher here

if you stay out of the hospital

sick as a dug

it's well over 100 every day and we're all bedridden with a cold. bedridden in that still-have-to-get-up-at-seven=and-go-to-work way. fml where are my drugs

stewed grilled charred nuked

i find it hard to put into words just exactly how miserable the weather here is.

for some insight, today at 9:15 am, according to weather.com, it was 93 F, feels like 106 F

no measure on the humidity, but i think an accurate descriptor would be "wetter than swimming"

one sock

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.