Better be tim.

We left Paris. We arrived at Arlanda airport. Welcomed, as customary, by the smell of urine. Our rides went in different directions. Snap. Our lives are no longer intertwined. Funny how that word didn't come to mind until we were separated. Intertwined. Maybe they weren't. Maybe I'm just making it up, in retrospect. I don't think so.

I met her yesterday. It was her birthday. I came to celebrate. We hugged and spoke of the weather. It's been sunny and hot for some time now. The spring flowers are dead and dry since long. I wonder if she remembers me. It seemed like she did. But she was always the shallow type. A smile, a kind word, to whomever. And like an animal, she forgets. I won't forget.

I won't ever forget.

Why you always...

We're preparing our dollhouse of an apartment for the final inspection.

Upon glueing back the useless towel rack on the wall (the two of us had to stand pressed against it, extremely close to each other, for fifteen consecutive minutes)...

Mousse *clearing throat*: So when's your birthday? Sunday?
Marty: Yeah.
Mousse: Shit. I'm so totally going to ignore that.
Marty: No! Won't you at least give me a call?
Mousse: I don't think so.
Marty: I hate you.


Back to cleaning, packing, glueing, fighting, eating, shopping... Laters.

Primitive (the way I treat you).

Time is running out on our stay in Paris, which means we've frantically tried to experience everything the city offers. Also, buying presents for loved ones, something which proved more difficult than we thought. Mostly since we can't seem to stop prioritising ourselves.

Marty: "This is a nice shirt. For me, I mean."
Mousse: "Of course."

.............

Mousse (a propos absolutely nothing): "It'd be mean to drown our neighbour's cat and hang the body next to the stairs."
Marty: "What are you talking about?"
Mousse: "With a note. 'You said you'd make us dinner! WE WERE HUNGRY!'"

Now that we have more food than we could possibly eat it might seem petty to kill a cat for the promise of dinner, but Mousse remembers.


Saturday we had dinner at a greek restaurant which reminded us of a school cafeteria, but with nicer wall decorations. And very cheap wine. (6€ for a litre!)The food held high standards, but the joy of chicken was somewhat diminished by the fact that I didn't have time to finish it, because they closed the restaurant.

We then made our way to nearby club The Hat, which kicked some serious ass! Mousse told you about the good parts, no one mentions the bad parts, everyone rejoices. I awoke too early without a cover, lovingly hugging my pillow.

Now I'm going to go have mousse for dessert.

Flames to dust, lovers to friends...

Allow me to be emotional. It only lasts about 70 hours for us in the city of lights.

Oh, if only I would allow me. Meh.

A dramatic week has passed since last I deigned to update this godforsaken blog of ours.

First, Wickedheart (i.e Marty's computer, our lifeline, a bitch) sort of crashed. She emptied all the maps, deleted all our installed programs and changed every personalized setting she could find. We were very sad. Music and pictures from the past is what we live for, and they were gone. Darkness. But then, after more than twelve hours of despair, Marty made up with Wickedheart and she in turn taught Marty how to retrieve deleted maps. We rejoiced, and felt as if life had been given anew to us.

Then, I worked my last days at work. They were wonderfully rainy and cold and allowed me to eat large amounts of ice cream and socialize with my nice colleagues. Also with my boss, who showed me another, a little more casual side of himself. One day, he mentioned something about dead people, make-up and American. I put the three together and guessed that he must've bought the DVD box of Six Feet Under. I smiled at him and hoped he wouldn't try to say anything more. I seem to only know the ice cream French. Say anything outside that specific field and I am pretty much lost.

Furthermore, there have been ominous signs. Apart from the rain that has been pouring down lately, a mouse visited the café. He almost jumped onto the shoulders of an unbeknownst customer and then tasted our expensive English bonbons. Boss wittily named him Mickey and put out glue traps. Mouse Mickey was never to be seen again. Later the same day, I had just closed the café for the night, and on my way to the metro, heard an impressed American girl say: Look, they're huge! pointing at a gang of five or more rascally rats, just outside the Centre Pompidou. Rain and rodents - definite signs of the doomsday. In other words, we're going home.

This is not the only drama I'm experiencing right now. There is also anguished gift shopping, a cheap Greek restaurant, a blue goodbye party from which Marty was excluded, cheating, drunkenness, the Hat night club and Morgan, whose pick-up line "Hello! You're a woman and I am gay, let's dance!" worked on both Marty and me. I have his number, would anyone feel like dancing.

But if you'll excuse me, I must now go clean something in this apartment.