Fwaaaaaaaaaaa . . .

Vendetta's off. Advisor accepted my word I didn't plagiarise, probably because I told him my dear mother's suggestion that I copy out a kajillion of the drafts I saved and explain the transition from one to another, and Mr. S's suggestion that I find a Canadian professor with a background in contemporary North American relations who'd be able to say I didn't copy. Perhaps Advisor thought it would just be more for him to read. So I won't kill France, after all.

Other good news: Stéphane Rousseau got to my apartment this morning. The ten minutes I watched before my opera lesson made me laugh three times. I'll need to watch them again before I know if I was laughing at the funniness, or out of happiness that I know another language enough to watch stand-up comedy in it, or if I was just giggling because, you know, I saw one of his nipples.

Stuck by the man

This site is censored in China! Fuckin' A! Probably due to Lexie's participation - that is one fucking reactionary civil libertarian of a kitty cat. You should hear what she has to say about the autonomy of Tibet and the plight of the Muslims in Ningxia province. To paraphrase: 'Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr'.

Speaking of all things censor-worthy: try to guess which one won without Googling.

At the office, Friday night, and going to stay because it's cleaner than my apartment and I need to put together documentary proof I didn't plagiarise the sack of shit that has been wrecking my life for more than a year. I may go out for a drink later, but the crooked way that last mochaccino went down suggests I'm more likely to go home and cry myself to sleep. People have warned me that when this fucker is done I'll feel a vaccuum in my life. I think I'll try filling it with a huge mountain of cocaine. Like this:
Because I doubt snorting a whole Andes-worth, if properly paced, could fuck up my head worse than writing a thesis for a French institution.

Frosted flake-y post

So this is Yahoo's version of me. My chin has shrunk, I've lost about 40 pounds, and my calico cat has become a red dragon. Yay.

Speaking of . . . I'm still purple with rage today. Considering the walking fury I become when I'm riding the red dragon, I resent being infuriated at other times of the month - just another thing to resent in this case. I'd rather be called ugly, stupid, evil, a lousy lay, smelly, or most other pejoratives I can think of than be called a liar. I wonder why. Probably some past-life shit. Anyways, according to my co-worker's Sun Signs book I need to chill, because I'm a Sagittarian and when we Sagittarians get extendedly upset over something it hits us physically. It's true, you know. The first time my heart broke I spent a week puking and having the funniest hallucinations. Is it material that the first time my heart broke was concurrent with the Florentine Plague Season, and that Florentines don't cover thier mouths when they cough? My biographers will be the judges.

Yesterday I was both purple with rage and very upset, because I have that stupid girly thing of crying the first time I get angry about something. The second time I might be all 'say hello to my leetle friend!', or some Dench-esque 'Are you telling me you had the temerity to accuse me of blah blah blah dripping icicles blah' shit, but the first time, it's waterworks and no fooling. Anyways, at the end of the day I remembered to book an appointment with a local Jungian analyst - I realized awhile ago that I need to have gone through around 100 hours of analysis before even applying to accredited schools - and as I was on the phone with him, waves of fury kept washing over me and I could hardly keep the tears out of my voice. He must be expecting one happy little package to arrive on his doorstep next Thursday.

Help

My brother hardly ever asks for anything specific, but this Christmas he said he'd like a print of what he thinks is something by Picasso, but maybe it's Matisse. He says it's a painting of a woman, from the back, her being a little cello-shaped. But it is not the one you see here - he says it's just two fluid black lines on a white background. Does anyone know the name of it, or if it's by Picasso, or does anyone have any idea what I'm talking about?

***********UPDATE*************

Turns out to be this, which Picasso simply called 'Femme'. Guess he wasn't a breast man. My brother plans on calling it 'Bum', which seems a little more accurate. Much love to Mr. N for referring me to www.art.com.








My thesis advisor finally got in touch. Turns out - and I'm sure this is absolutely independent of me, say, contacting the school to ask why the fuck I hadn't heard from him for seven weeks - he thinks I copied it. This isn't the first time a French professor has accused me of plagiarism. But you know what? It had fucking better be the fucking last, because I am way too pretty for jail, and I am thiiiiiiiis close to murderizing all of fucking France. I don't know what pisses me off more: the accusation, the self-servingness of the accusation, or the fact that now I'll have to go to mad documentary trouble to prove that I didn't copy when I've already gone to enough trouble actually WRITING the fucker. Oh sweet fuck on a stick. Someone is going to pay.

Uhmmmmmmm . . .

I know they have assistants who do this for them, but . . . but . . . he ;-) me! My mum went to Beatles concerts in Liverpool back in the day. Must remember to ask her next Sunday what the appropriate scream-y noise to make in such a circumstance would be.

De: Mlle LaSpliffe
Date: lun. 21/11/2005 16:43
À: Stéphane Rousseau
Objet : aucun

Bonjour,

M. Rousseau est actuellement en tournée à Paris? Je suis obligée de rester en cette ville pour quelques semaines en janvier et j'aimerais bien voir son acte.

Merci,

Mlle La Spliffe


De: Stéphane Rousseau
Date: mar. 29/11/2005 16:43
À: Mlle La Spliffe
Objet : Je serai à Paris...

Bonjour Mlle La Spliffe!

Je suis en tournée depuis presque 6 semaines en France, un peu partout dans ce beau pays. Je serai en spectacles à Paris au Bataclan à partir du 17 septembre jusqu'au 28 février. Au plaisir de vous divertir et surtout de vous faire rire! ;-)

Stéphane

Shake Hands With the Devil Is Not Bedtime Reading

Had the worst dream last night about trying to conclude a peace accord in a small Latin American republic. It was going swimmingly, and then an extremist walked in, blew the other negotiators away until he ran out of bullets, and started cracking necks. After wrapping that up he began slicing off my fingers in an effort to make me do a radio announcement handing power over to his party. And the worst part of it all was that the whole negotiating team just stared dumbly at him while he did all this; we couldn’t believe it.

The dream made me want to puke. So did this.

Time for more Brontë sisters and some George Eliot, I think. Roméo Dallaire will be strictly for the subway and lunchbreaks.

Merde, je pue

I smell awful today. Not awful like stinky, soap-averse, insert-name-of-favourite-smelly-ethnic-group-here awful, but Ralph Lauren Romance awful. This shit makes me smell like a Victorian whore trying to cover up some unspeakable disease. But I looked at the bottle this morning, thought in my CaWASPrian way ‘oh, better use that up before it goes off’, sprayed myself with it, and immediately lost every trace of my vestigial homosexuality.

To help the more clueless among you buy smelly things for Christmas, I’ve got a few other perfumes on the go, all infinitely better than this, that I can reccommend. One, Calvin Klein’s Truth. Good sexy smell, totally without nauseating revolting hints of sweetness. Never would have bought it for myself before, but now enamoured. Two, Clinique’s Happy. Smells like a freshly-scrubbed flower or something. Picks you up and makes you feel like you didn’t smoke too much reefer the night before. The man-scent of this is pretty good too - very fresh but not twee to the degree a straight man won't wear it. Finally, Lancôme’s So Magic! Hints of violet without too much alchohol, and again, glossing over the sweetness. Probably what that Ralph Lauren shit was trying for.

Oh FUCK, I smell bad.