I liked you so much that I copy/pasted you in my life and had your brother fall in love with me.
My question to God is why didn’t I get to meet him first, before you, to stick to the best version of yourself: younger, sexier, and most important, kinder – he is a person capable of feeling emotions, not like you, you’re fucked up, so you know, and only God can save you…
It struck me how much he sounds like you. The same manly but rather funny voice, with only some differences in the pronunciation of some words – like ‘love’, a word that has a silent pronunciation in your case.
Your brother does not know about you and me. And if you tell him, he’ll tell you what I did not have the chance to tell you in the end – that you don’t matter… not even a bit.
“I am a too much woman for boys, I am too childish for men”
My dear Eponine called me at 3am one night. They say only drunk, heart broken and in love people are up at this time during the night. I was sleeping like a bear.
After another break-up, Eponine swore to me at 3am that night that she is done with dating men until she reaches the fatidic age of 25.
3 months after that night she got engaged.
Today I went on the 100th date since my last serious relationship.
From 100, two men made me laugh. One of them too much and he is now my best friend, and the other one just enough to intrigue me.
I discussed today with my date about underwear and cheap pubs. My date told me about his secret recipe to happiness: never doing laundry.
We talked about his family and how he misses his mum. She does his laundry when he goes home. She now lives in London so he buys cheap underwear so he can toss it away everyday.
This was the first time when I felt the true meaning of the British slang “fair enough”.
So I told him fair enough while wishing I wouldn’t have tossed away so many hours of my life.
I made a hole in the wall; I tried to fix it; It went alright till I destroyed the wall.
It’s midnight. This afternoon I started fixing my cracked wall – last week I had a painting falling into it.
My painting is fine, by the way – Ars longa, vita…?
It’s midnight and I’m still trying to do it. You know, I like to think that I am able to do whatever my brain wants me to do.
But this fucking hole, I cannot fix it!
To the man I’ll marry one day… I will make you dinner every night, you – just fix my cracked walls?
There’s this little French boulangerie, ‘Victor Hugo’, where I get my weekly dose of pain au chocolate and Edith Piaf. Going there makes this exile feel more poetic – I can imagine the 19th century cafes in Paris, where great artists and great thinkers met to talk great ideas.
However, in this petite boulangerie, the Frenchiest place in this mouldy port town, there were no great thinkers or artists last Tuesday. We were just me and my friend, sitting at the street. She – a 21st century Eponine with a ‘je m’en fische’ look and life philosophy.
She lights up another cigarette: ‘So what now?’.
I shrug my shoulders. I wish she’d stopped talking for a while.
I go order another cappuccino in my poor French. ‘So what now?’ I’m saying to myself while waiting for my drink.
I get back to our table to find a Rolls parked in front of Eponine and my seat taken by another idiot.
‘That’s your cappuccino, thank you’ I say to Eponine, leaving her with the guy and my coffee.
The sun remembered this rotten town. It has been a while since we met last time.