Fedora

Oh God my legs, my legs.

Today we walked the entire Musee Picasso, and then decided it might be fun to take a look at Notre Dame. 150 miles later, we drag ourselves into a bistro for a plate of protein and a large glass of water. Somehow we got home, and are now attempting to rest through the pain.

I am expressly forbidden to sleep, but mom has passed out on my sister's bed, and Pleasant herself is taking what she calls a "computer nap"- sitting on her laptop, completely catatonic except for her fingers. So far she's the only one with reliable wifi. Stupid Apple slave bitch.

We didn't end up seeing much of the music festival last night, owing to the fact that none of us could stand up. We did see (and hear) the beginnings of an excelent rave going on right outside our building.

An interesting note on Paris traffic: It makes Los Angeles look like an amusement park ride. There are no lanes. Cars go wherever they want anyway they can. The crossing lights mean nothing. People cross the street according to some subconcious signal being broadcasted in French, so that I can do nothing but watch them and do what they do. We talked a bit about renting bikes, but I broke into a cold sweat at the though of trying to do anything in that rush of speeding metal other then avoid it.

The museum was interesting, Picasso reminds me a lot of Salvador Dali, just in terms of wackiness. Those 20th century opium addict nutjobs... I got a goat postcard to send to my dad, the family resemblance is shocking.

My attempts to discuss the philosophies of our various interests have been met with eye rolls, while the descriptions of my career in Puzzle Pirates resulted in outright hostility. Many people have pointed out to me that I'm majoring in a subject that, by definition, no one gives a damn about, but still I try. It does have practical upshots though, I could read the Picassos way better then the other two could.

My sister has been fashiongasming since we got here. I find it unfair that while her interests are uniligual (you can't translate a dress) my own are rather limited by the language barrier. I can't read french nearly at all, which slows down the book collecting sort of extremely. My shopping tolerance is low, very low. It's a form of torture for me. I not only don't care what I wear, but also don't fit into anything. My favorite outfit is a black tank top and a pair of jeans. I can imagine nothing more horrible then being made to try on things I don't like and then seeing how awful I look in them. Don't get me wrong, I like the clothes. But they were not made for people with eastern european genes. Slightly more tolerable, but only slightly, is standing around watching mom and Plez do the same thing. Adding to the fatigue and the boredem is the challenge of being asked what I think, and being forced to claw my way up into reality long enough to give some sort of opinion.

We actually haven't done too much of this so far, so this is mostly preemtive dread based on past experience. Lest I be accused of whining, I really enjoy window shopping, because it goes relativly quick, and you're usually progressing towards a goal of some kind.

Now mom and P are both asleep. Hypocritical bastards.

Anyway mom says not to make this too long, so I'll sign off for now.

TTFN,
Gossip Girl