Francisation.

When I see a photo of myself like this I just have to assume that I don't always look like this. I must not, or I wouldn't have any friends, right? Or are all my friends just really good people who like me in spite of my horrifying exterior? Likely not.

I look like I just gave birth to colicky twins while suffering from a head cold. Scratch that, I look more like a fat, sweaty ballsack. Some people just wake up in the morning with cute mussed hair and sweet sleepy eyes. Instead I look like I just climbed out of an alien's anus. Where am I? Why am I covered in alien poo? That's a head scratcher.

Today my french school announced that they found a bed bug in one of the classrooms. As if I needed another reason not to go to school. The directrice came around to each class to give a speech about these little critters, emphasizing that "Ils peuvent etre dans les mattelas de les riches et les pauvres. Dans les grandes villes en Asie ou Amerique du Nord." We're supposed to wash all our clothes in hot water and bleach and girls with long hair are supposed to keep it pulled back so as not to transport the bugs to and fro via our luscious locks. I am going to do none of these things because if the gigantic amounts of crap that we steal off the streets haven't given our house bed bugs, nothing will.

Also, today in class we were talking about which movie we wanted to watch on our last day and someone suggested La Vie Est Belle, to which our teacher said, speaking about the only German student in the class, "Probablement Jorgen ne veut pas regarder une film au sujet de la Douxieme Geurre Mondiale." Jorgen looked around awkwardly for a second, I imagine he was not sure if she meant he would feel uncomfortable or guilty about the war, or if he was meant to be tired of it by now, in which case should he feel guilty as well? Does that mean Avi Cohen-Silverman doesn't want to watch it either then? Sometimes I think being French is simply an excuse to be rude.