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.