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.