I say yes. Yes, it can.

And at this rate, it will.

2 cups manipulation

3 cups me, me, me

4 eggs

2 tbsp. miscommunication

1 tsp. perceived isolation

1/2 cup vitriol

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Mix manipulation and me, me, me in large bowl. Stir in eggs and perceived isolation until evenly blended (mixture may be slightly lumpy). Fold in miscommunication; pour in large ramekin. Bake for 15 mins. or until souffle rises. Remove from oven; garnish with vitriol. Serve immediately.

when it rains, new york almost smells like paris.

almost. 

trying to be a little older. a little wiser.

I never listen to pop/top 40 radio, but every time that I do, if only briefly, I'm catapulted back to the saddest and worst relationship moments of high school, even if the song wasn't actually a part of those memories.

Honestly. Those driving back home after a breakup, or argument, or missed opportunity, or realization of unrequited love moments. It's all set in suburbia; it's all set to sweeping, big-chorus pop songs from the early '90s to roughly now; it all takes place alone in the car on a night drive home in the dark.

I believe this is because that was the only time in which I truly wouldn't care what was on the radio, and yet I would give it my full attention in an attempt to justify or quantify what had just happened.

Funny thing is, it only applies to those moments. Sad moments post-suburbia have an entirely different soundtrack, and aren't nearly as abundant.

a storm is brewing.

and after tasting the salty spray, i'm coming to the realization that i can't control the weather.

i never thought i'd have to deal with this.

i sincerely -- naïvely -- thought i was immune.

I paid my first student loan payment on Saturday.

This will be a long road.

"We ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white would embrace what is right.”

I think what I love most about a city is that you can walk, keep walking endlessly until the soles of your feet ache from the pace, and wherever you give up (if you give up), you're always somewhere, and never in-between two places.

Something about this rang so true to me:

"When they boo you in Philadelphia, it penetrates you," said Dickie Noles, a relief pitcher for the Phillies when they won the World Series in 1980. "It's different than your normal boo. It comes at you quicker because of the knowledge of the Philly fan. And then it grows into something louder than you hear anyplace else. Philly fans are not just booing the play they just saw. They are booing a whole lifetime at you."

Livejournal's changed a great deal since I last posted.

So have I.

Tired. So tired.

It's a rat race I'm tired of running. Why can't I enjoy school?

Tired. So tired.

They say one's resume is to be only a page. I agree, but imagine the difficulty when you work two jobs each semester.

Tired. So tired.

I can't even enjoy the end because I'm terrified of the beginning.

Tired. So tired.

The weather's warm; I can't afford the clothing.

Tired. So tired.

I'm told I'm good, but no one wants to pay me for it.

Tired. So tired.

Why must I be penalized to go to school?

Tired. So tired.

A day off drips with guilt.

Tired.

"The fixity of habit is generally in direct proportion to its absurdity." -M. Proust

It seems this free time is beneficial in exercising my mind even more than my studies normally allow.

Speaking to an old and once surprising friend late tonight into the morning was rewarding trifold; once in that i value the few things we do talk about, twice in that the internet as a tool is an amazing drug that can open up the firmest of souls; and thrice in that i could maybe and possibly have provided an open ear and outlet for a weary lost soul. My hopes are with her.

I happen to be in the middle of On The Road, and I found this to be appropriate advice for consideration at this ungodly hour:

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' " -- Kerouac

I imagine I've stopped reaping benefits from this place; I don't find myself especially eager to alert any of my friends of my brief presence.

I no longer feel obligated to fit in with, or design a life around, what was formerly called "home." In this way I find the most comfort.

I don't think I could have (in my most incredulous dreams) expected such a drastic side effect to my completely positive, forward-moving life.

But it's no matter. I fit better as the alien tourist than I ever did as the disillusioned vagrant.

-AN


"They ask me where the hell I'm going at 1000 feet per second"

Twenty degrees. All it takes is 20 degrees, coffee and a croissant to elicit a torrent of memories.

I don't recommend growing up to anyone who hasn't mastered the art of saying goodbye.

Un an, mon amour.

Il y a un an que nous sommes tombés amoureux; l'éxcitation maintenant est le même si plus que le commencement. Chaque bisous, chaque sourire, chaque rire, chaque coup d'oeil. Je ne dis pas que je ne soit plus heureux que maintenant; je dis seulement que le temps avec toi m'était fortifié, il m'a régénèré, et surtout, était completement agréable. Je suis heureux. Je ne mesurerai pas mon bonheur.

Avec toi, la vie est agréable et je ne peux pas attendre jusqu'à le prochain matin.

Je regarde le soleil qui se couche et je suis satisfait de l'arrangement des étoiles ce soir.

-cheetah

the dream is over.

it hit me all at once, as I cut the last slice of Saint Agur for my now infamous Tuesday night baguette dinner, as I filled out my last time sheet, as I saw the fruits of the franco-american cinema project "Culture Shock" come alive on the big screen, as I received my gift and my certificate, as the closing credits of l'auberge espagnole rolled, as I walked away from the firm handshake of a Celio-clad Patrick on rue de Passy, as i stepped off the 9 and said goodbye to Prof. Molkou, and as I walked home carrying Quiche Lorraine, Comte, Volvic pomme, a baguette, and Lindt poire intense in a desperate attempt to grab onto the facon de vivre that i have created for myself here in Paris.

I never thought I'd be taken kicking and screaming, you know.

You count the days, one by one until I'm home, and you certainly enjoy your days while you're here. But it's not the city that keeps me, though the magic of walking across Trocadero in between Musee de l'homme and Musee de Theatre and seeing the Eiffel Tower in all of it's majesty, glowing like a filament against a cloudy sky above the carrousels, fountains, tourists, crepe vendors, and the Seine that lies at her feet is breathtaking.

No, I'm not trying to make it all sound beautiful now that it's coming to a close. There were bumps, bruises, and everything else that came with living here, but you bond over them, you know? I'm tight with Austin, I'm friends with most, and the girls in the office are family, plain and simple. It's hard to imagine not having to answer a phone in the office again, not having conversations about race relations with Andre, not debating between Dom's and the 5euro La Formule place, complete with Jill keeping tabs on my flan.

You get in a rut in keeping your eye on the 6 hour time difference, when you can talk to certain people, and you basically reorganize your life. It was rough coming and starting over and now it will be rough restarting. C'est juste un certain facon de vivre qui est comme d'habitude chaque jour. The pain au chocolat aux amandes, macarons, and saint pierres at Paul every morning, and Klix cappuccinos or cafe vanilles to match from the Center. Doing the mail, writing 56 Insolite, handing in papers, sitting in the garden, speaking franglais like its my job.

That's gonna be the toughest. After taking my final oral today and saying goodbye to Xavier, Amandine, and Pauline in back and forth french and english, I've come to realize that I've really got French down and it will be difficult not to use it. There are certain words and phrases that I can't easily use in English and now I'm just that way. I can listen to a French conversation for hours and not blink an eye; I took out 2 classic french films I've seen and 1 I haven't for tonight.

After all, I'm terrible at goodbyes. I get awkward because I always feel like I'm somehow responsible for the situation of leaving and thus am embarassed to tie things up.

Everyone asks me, are you happy to go home? Each and every time I use the word "bittersweet." Before it was "I can't wait to go home," and now it's more complicated than that. It always gets more complex, doesn't it? Life isn't so straightforward, one of the first life lessons I learned and continue to experience.

After a final sushi luncheon, major packing, and a cafe in a brasserie, it's safe to say that I'll be 8 hours away from my next life.

Jusqu'a la, je suis ce que je suis.

patrick's right about one thing; we all need a break.

though we have weekends and holidays, 'taking a break' isn't the same when you're not in your home country. you may take it easy where you are, you might visit another country, but you're not really 'taking a break' like you would at home. you could replicate everything you would do at home but your mind won't be at ease.

he hit that one right on the head.