blush factory.

"object i: the bag itself

it’s an oversized department-store style paper sack with shoelace handles, ornamented with a simple white design and the word FENTE, which I don’t recognize. it’s sitting by the door when i walk inside, waiting to be taken. i didn’t realize she had already packed it. it’s heavier than i expect when i carry it to the sofa and begin to pick at its contents: everything i’d left at her apartment. “je suis une personne sérieuse,” she had told me once. true enough. meticulous, nostalgic, she couldn’t have missed a thing. not a penny i’d dropped, nor a note i’d scribbled. a pubic hair.

she says take off your shoes and she sits on a rolling desk chair with her feet propped up on the coffee table beside a carnivorous plant named after an american actor that’s only famous in europe. it isn’t well. november. following her feet up her bare legs i think about burying my face between them, about fucking her against the wall, about dirty words in a thick accent. when i move my gaze to her mouth she stares back coldly so i drop my eyes quickly into the big red bag. she won’t say another word for half an hour. i take off my shoes."

and this is how i found my calling as a smut writer. what happens next (in what was supposed to be a relatively serious work of semi-nonfiction) is that i replace the heartbreaking bit of nostalgia i had intended to examine with something far more interesting: a "sex scene" so wet with detail that it is, in fact, a more accurate portrayal of the thoughts and motivations of our, how shall i say, hapless narrator. unfortunately, i will not be posting that here. however, garbage will be available upon request. also, i might be soliciting for experiences (read: research) vital to the past (read: present) of a future smut writer. this doesn't mean put your finger in my ass. it means bring your sister.

have some class.


note: the above excerpt is from a work of (as of now) fiction. any resemblance to real people or events is completely coincidental.

fond.

it's been a long time, diary! last time i basted you with hot words was i can't remember ago.

this is the first i've been sick since the last post (one disease ago). at the moment, my throat feels as if i spent my birthday swallowing jacks, crackerjacks, firecrackers, tacks and tax(idermal porcupines). additionally, my whole body is sore, but that's probably from shaking what my momma gave me. if i never hear another madonna song for the rest of my life i'll probably be the better for it.

thanks for the mexican food, mexicans. and thanks to everyone who put on a mask of my face to scare the fuck out of me when i walked out of the bathroom. eleven evans: i swear i thought i was about to be sodomized.

thanksgiving is up the backstretch. i'm envisioning a turkey sandwich. or maybe just a sandwich from a turkish restaurant. or maybe a turkish lover. those sideburns are so sexy, ladies! god, that was racist. so in the spirit of thanksgiving, i will go into the banlieue, and the racaille and i will make smores over a flambeau de renault. if smores don't mean brotherhood (and isn't smore what those needies always need?) then i'm lost.

come and find me. bring soup.

ladies and gentlemen.

exhibit i:

effluvian sinus infection. dizzish fever. feelings of pukishness. someone dropped an anvil on my head. this was the morning of my flight; well, my first flight; well, my non-flight. luckily, the transparent glue rolling out of my nose was able to power a small hydro-electric plant on my upper lip that released a squadron (herd?) of robotic beagles to run into the forest and fetch me some ephedrine-based decongestants. once again, i said luckily.

exhibit ii:

the french are known for being bureaucratic (in fact, i think they invented the word). short story short, i got my visa a day after my airplane flew into outer space. i rescheduled my flight, like a good frenchman, about twenty minutes before missing it.

exhibit iii:

re-flight delayed three hours. to apologize for this, klm gave everyone $10 vouchers for food anywhere in the airport. the catch: it was ten o'clock at night and everything closed at that precise exact moment. unfortunately, someone slid under closing gate and got in line at burger king, causing the manager to open the restaurant to the entire airplane. what this means: 200 people trying to spend as close as possible to $10 (without going over) at burger king. luckily (again), i wasn't hungry. so I got a giant ('king'-sized) milkshake, a bottle of water, and two pieces of pie. $8.81. keep the change.

arrivant.

no two brands of bottled water are the different.

translations of common expressions that aren't common in english:

1. that makes me shit.
2. put your fingers in your ass and whistle.
3. you make me shit.
4. you can't pickle a pickle.
5. i make myself shit.
6. pig-god!

(1) and (3) are pretty self-explanatory. (5) is an expression of boredom. i think that (2), though similar linguistically and imagistically to "put that in your pipe and smoke it," actually means something closer to "fuck off." to be honest, i don't think i know what "put that in your pipe and smoke it" means, but as i sit here saying it over and over to myself aloud at seven in the morning, it begins to taste a little like "i told you so." (6) is, in its native tongue, something like the worst thing you can say. i think i just made up (4), but it doesn't matter, because this entire entry exists only to get...

...TRANSLATO-ED.

____________________________________________________

is not uses the english common expression together the translation:
1. that signs i shit.
2. invests your finger in yours donkey and the whistling.
3. you make my shit.
4. you are unable the salt system salt juice.
5. i make oneself shit.
6. pigs gods!

(1) and (3) is quite obvious. (5) is the tasteless expression. i believed, (2), although similarly invests that to "pulls out it in yours pipe and the language and imagistically," meant in fact something boils to nearer ". "honestly speaks me not to think i knew any" invests that and pulls out its "in yours pipe to mean, but when i sit here to say many times it to i loudly in seven mornings, it starts to taste little likes" i telling you so. "(6) is, in its mother tongue, the worst matter which some phenomenon you can say. i thought i have made up (4), but its not critical time, because this entire entry existence have to...

... translato ED.

____________________________________________________

the general expression reassignment not generally uses england:

1. this make the excrement and i.
2. it places its finger to enter its donkey and to blow blow whistling.
3. your excrement is isn't them with me.
4. you are unable one pickle pickle
5. if my will is the excrement.
6. porco-deus!

(1) and (3) they will be evidentes consideravelmente. (5) they will be the tasteless expression. i believed, (2), even so similar ling? ? stica and its "placed this to enter its conduit and imagistically pulls it out," in fact middle something more "if went to fodder." then in order to is honest, 4 did not think 44 knew "it places this to enter my conduit and it to pull out its" it to care for, but i sits by 4 itself proportion to under here govoryashch biggest repetidamente enters 7 mornings, starts some proof taste "i him thus thinks this." (6) they, with theirs mother tongue - casti, something the matter which you possibly thought as plokh. i believed that, i it has included (4), but 4 i do not have the value, because this entire entrance existence in order to only starts...... the translato-TRANSLATO- translato-TRANSLATO- unit.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

three and a half tongues.

i turn a comforter into a cocoon because i am never satisfied. she does it so she can make a sulking tent, a depressio-hut, but she doesn't know quite how unsanitary it is. i learned that you can climb into the internet and make sushi or indian food show up at your door in less time than it takes me to construct a sentence in this godforsaken lung. you can turn your whole body curry-orange and feel like you go on forever, like you're looking in a mirror that has a mirror in front of it. i think that's how everything looks in places that are far away from here. you know, secret places. secret, cosmic places so cosmic and so secret that i lost my train of thought.

my phone died, which is to say that at one in the morning when you try to catch the last RER home because you don't want to pay for a cab and you're in the traincar without seats and there are fortynine people in a seven foot square and the lights are flickering and you don't know if you're a virgin anymore someone took it out of your pocket. it's okay, though, because i was given a new one by the red cross. hospitals are made up of a bunch of apartment buildings that aren't even glued together.

there is something with three and half tongues that doesn't know the difference between do and make (and now neither do i) and that kills me and then washes its hands like a surgeon. more on this later.

i'm trying to skip the middleman so i've written an email to the director of the math department at paris iv. if he speaks english then he'll think that i'm a bumbling, stupid american, take pity on me and make me his apprentice. we'll probably sleep together and his wife will find out and kick him out of the house. he'll try to move in with me but i'm not having it. i'm just not ready for that sort of commitment, much less complete disregard for the professional ethic. maybe i can babysit his kids and learn broken french. maybe the government will give me money. i need to play cards tomorrow. they actually gamble with tarot cards here. there goes your "joke," mr. wright.

tomorrow i will buy sneakers so my feet don't bleed anymore. the ghosts in the bathroom slammed the door again. i knew there were magnets here. i have some explaining to do.

the miserable circus of storytelling.

you're drinking orange juice and someone taps you on the shoulder. it's you! "you will see me tomorrow," you say. "tell me to stop thinking about her."

the fact that some messiah is not going to come knocking at my door tomorrow to tell me that my heart is like an overchlorinated swimming pool doesn't keep me from incessantly getting up and looking through the peep-hole and once in a while knocking on it myself from the inside. that last sentence was not a metaphor. i think it was a dream.

and if you ever find yourself inside of a dream don't take the advice of a family member when they tell you to go to a house in the middle of the woods where supposedly live and aunt and uncle of yours you've never heard of because it might mean that you have to stave off a goblin insurrection in a mansion that can be driven like a car. it could also mean that after the rebellion has subsided you're going to be forced into s&m torture by those supposed family members alongside a sexy "cousin" who makes you feel a little better because you figure it probably happens to her every day. you might even tell yourself that this is a dream and then wake up. but you don't wake up in the place you went to sleep. instead you're in your grandmother's house eleven years ago and you're thirsty. so you walk past the dog that's a scorpion and get yourself some orange juice.

why i say "jesus" and "fuck" when i fuck

(it is my solemn oath that the following entry will not have anything to do with its title.)

we are going to record an a capella version of "if i can't have you" where girlvoice mimics the piano by screaming like a monkey. it won't be perfect; it won't even be good. but it will be more fun than those nights i spent walking on the inside of a telephone. anything would.

i wonder how les voisins will feel if i try to throw a fourth of july barbecue in the courtyard. do you think i could make some flyers that pitch it as a cultural event? or is america not exotic enough since it's already everywhere? they'd be there if i played that goddamned rap music they love. please, baby, if you come i'll force down your fucking foie gras on bastille day. i can handle it...it's just like potted meat. yet despite my namesake i have no taste for caviar.

i don't know anything about nutrition, but i think cheese is a good source of protein if you can't afford meat. and cheese is more expensive than meat. and i can get a bottle of fake champagne pink for 1€ but i'm afraid to go outside because

(i'm going in search of the titular line and on my way i'll ask god why temptation can't resist me.)

bitten again.

(umpteenth spider in less weeks. on my belly button!)

discothèque. i wish ambrose were alive for this. is anyone named ambrose alive right now? since i bought her way in, she was obligated to drink as much at the open bar as the cover seemed to suggest. about halfway to that quota, she was so ivre fucking mort (astheysay) she couldn't stand up leaning against the sink-shelf and the bouncers were chasing the two of them in and out of the bathroom like benny hill and on the dance floor the men were dancing a combination of like women and like scooby doo when he tries to run away.

then a man who looks more like a spider than the spider but who tells me he's never slept with his husband before tells me tonight might be the night, the night i find out i'm not really hetero, a word that when spoken by him sounds like "retro," which i'm not, not even in whatever language he was speaking. it was all fine until he touched my arm like he was made out of a thousand spiders, then i had to run to my wife whom i've never slept with and jet jet jet.

i want to drink this, but i will.

(four in the morning: putting it in my nose en france.)

so far, incredible fun. almost died in new jersey. torrential winds make it difficult to land airplanes, i hear. next thing i know, some muslims steal my whiskey by the seine. they were very drunk and i, having already consumed too much of the bottle, immediately forgave them. not so for others. "why don't you stop her, evan?!" "why doesn't she stop herself?!" i wish i could find the interrobang on this thing.

tomorrow, which is essentially today since i essentially woke up at midnight (and by essentially i mean actually), i am going to go look for a job and find out how to apply for school here. in preparation for this, naima has given me a beautiful and hilariously european haircut, which i will post some pictures of as soon as i can kill someone and steal their money and go buy some amero-europo adapters at the hilariously european fnac.

no one should ever throw their money away on a fancy weight-loss program. they should throw their money away on moving to france, where there is no such thing as food and every such thing as walking around all the time. i think i've already lost ten pounds, and at this rate I should weigh approximately zero pounds in approximately 25 days or, as the natives say, "approximately zero kilograms."

i miss everyone in alabama, and by "miss" i mean "need a favor from." make those goddamned "bush/cheney '08" bumper stickers, tshirts, and hunting caps, then sell them for a lot of money and send me a generous portion of the proceeds. file it under R & D, R.D.

inanimate objects.

ideally, this publication (what?) should contain little more than rambling lists of things of which i am sick and tired. it might be entertaining. funny even. unfortunately, i am cursed with more patience than the yarmuk hospital (okay, maybe it would never be funny). i need to be more infuriated. i need to feel anger. to hate inanimate objects. to want to break people, places and things. add ideas to that.

the only thing that has even gotten close to frustrating me this week is the ebay treasure hunt. this is a game where the lovely people at ebay post incredibly vague clues intended to lead you to an object being sold at auction. if you find it, you get $1000. simple enough, right? well, here's an example i've thrown together to try and explain the logic behind this little scavenger affair:

clue: phalanges.

answer: well, a phalanx is a bone in the finger or toe. that song "head, shouders, knees, and toes" sort of reminds me of a shampoo, and that's also the name of a warren beatty movie which co-stars goldie hawn, who's name rhymes with "dawn," which is when the sun rises; bread rises too and, slangily, bread is money, which is, by an old adage, equivalent to time, which can be read on clock; clocks tic(k) and so do people with tourette's syndrome; george gilles de la tourette was born in london, a city sharing its name with the guy who wrote the call of the wild; a WILDebeest is a type of antelope and "ante" means "before," so what's before "lope" in webster's? lop! and you could, if you chose, lop someone's arms off with a samurai sword. so, if you want the $1000, you should enter "teenage mutant ninja turtles" in the search bar because, if i remember correctly, at least one of them has a samurai sword. if that doesn't work, you need to delve into the history of whichever artist that turtle is named after. try searching the maiden name of his long-dead wife.

the spirit catches you and you fall down.

they call it an aura, of all things. dogs can smell it. sometimes you itch, get vertigo, sweat. at the wake of a young dog, my nephew turned seven with a dozen or so electrodes on his head. they destroyed his hair.

there is a ladybug crawling across the screen of this computer. they have ceased to be beautiful. now they are only here until they cease to be. i tried to decipher their cultural meaning in an essay, but it came out to be about blowjobs, which would have embarrassed me if only i had the capacity. from what i hear, it's not such a bad thing that i don't, but just wait, you'll tire of it.

two people owe me comments. you know who you are. and I know who you are, so I know that you won't be reading this.

two theories:

1) sexual prowess is inversely proportional to dancing talent. this doesn't apply to the classically trained. it applies more to the general ability to move to music with rudimentary rhythm and grace. to your credit (i guess), there are plenty of ballerina's who can't do that. case in point: italians.

2) i'm beginning to think that even the most intelligent of my friends are christians. anyone who uses the phrase "beyond biology" should at least have the self-awareness to admit that they are no longer arguing reason. these people, of course, would be offended that i call them "christians," because apparently thinking that man is the greatest thing to ever happen to the universe falls within the realm of their proclaimed atheism (or, for the pussier ones, agnosticism). it's all the same to me.

okay, okay. i tire.