So, following a long, entertaining and endless shift that took many smiles, sighs and strops to endure, I burst back into the linguistic skill set. After an afternoon of enduring a highly erotic and visual session of molestation thanks to the herds of Arabs who flock in the smoking area of the notsofuckinggenericbutitreallyiscoffeeshop, I stomped home in my big black sticky dyke doc martens. On the way, I received a phone call from a much missed and greatly treasured old flame, Virginie. Following the wild and excitable exclamations that ensued for the next three to four long and happy minutes, my French suddenly and quite miraculously jumped back to the fore front of my mind. I then proceeded to converse with my onceuponatime lover about the joys of architectural degrees in Paris, the woes of latte scalds, sexual frustration, language boundaries with american male tourists, plans for the future and anecdotes of nostaligic wonders from our shared past life together.
What a joy the French language is. Though it's a real shame it is unable to protect my figure from the barrage of unwanted attention forced upon for earlier today.
Ah oui, time pour Xfactor et beacoup de vin. Bon nuit.
What a joy the French language is. Though it's a real shame it is unable to protect my figure from the barrage of unwanted attention forced upon for earlier today.
Ah oui, time pour Xfactor et beacoup de vin. Bon nuit.
