Shut up. Just... shut up.

There's a kid in my house.

There's a kid in my house that I barely know and that won't stop talking to me.

There's a kid in my house whose name is Jules and that I'd love to strangle.

Shut up. Just... shut up, you fat 'moulin à paroles'.

Shut up or I'm gonna kill you dead with my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Omnibus you've been stopping me to read by talking to me or to the TV. Shut up. It's a Wii. It's not gonna answer.

I think I like your sister Emma better. She might look and act in a slightly depressed way, she might creep me out, but at least he shuts UP!


Did shut up, anyway. They left now. They were the kids of a nice, real quiet guy, a hunter, that my mother is desperately trying to set up with one of her best friends. A totally doomed teenage enterprise only my mother could think up. But enough about all that drama, how have you been?

I've been okay, I guess. I had a nice evening. I had a 'groupe d'activités' thing, I usually hate everything related to that because the guys look at everybody either not talking to anyone but their friends or making fun of everybody, half of the girls are petty and mean and the other half looks at you as if they'd just discovered you in a heap of dinosaurs dung.

But this time it was okay. Perhaps because only half of the group was present, but more likely because the activity revolved around food.

I love food. I guess this isn't the first time I'm telling you, but I really, really love food.

We made a three-course dinner and ate it afterwards. I had more fun making it with the others than eating it with the others. I liked the 40 year-old cooks better than the people my age. The usual.

I have a theory on food. Making food makes people friendly. A cook is always better company than a dietician. People are chagrined when they are hungry (which is why you show your report card at the end of dinner and not before).
Posts on this blog are either bemoaning or euphoric. When they're euphoric, it's mostly because I achieved something in the kitchen.

One of the cooks was a Frenchman. I don't like them all that much: the ones I know that are grown up are bitchy. The cook wasn't. See there the wonderful effects of good food.

I  know I'm being irrational. There is a grown-up Frenchman I know that is friendly. Then again, he might be grown-up in body, I strongly doubt he is in mind: he still plays with cars. Admittedly, his cars are big live old-timers, but they're still his toys.

All that fuss to say that I barely passed the introduction of my omnibus and dinner was good.

*Sigh...*


Well, what are you still hanging around here? Go do something productive! Write a blogpost!