I always get asked why I came to France, because the French are quite interested in why anybody would bother coming here when they want to escape it.  In fairness, this isn’t limited to the French, anybody who has moved countries will have been asked this; followed by a tale of how much the person who posed the question wants to live where you came from.

I personally just wanted to, so I did, voilà.  But this doesn’t make an interesting story enough, people are seeking intrigue and perhaps a deportation story (when you have two passports, it seems to raise the question for some bizarre reason).

I’ve decidedly changed my direction when the question is thrown out there.  I’m here to bang French dudes.  The icebreaker of all icebreakers (to employ some bullshit managementism for you there).  Needless to say this seems to work, to the extent it becomes a self-fulfilling prophacy at times.

But I divert from the original concept of this post (see I planned something in advance).  The point is to bang French dudes you need to speak French, it comes part and parcel.

I had a time when I was confident I could throw down a perfect reflexive verb, like Kanye at a music award interupting Taylor Swift.  But then things went down, and that confidence blew up in to a catastrophic mess.

My internal voice tells me I couldn’t conjugate an er verb without looking a fool, so I don’t, I take the easy way out International English.  But I’m starting to get back up, you see, contrary to the myth that everybody in Paris speaks English, there are are a shitload of people that just can’t.  Or when dealing with any higher functioning extention of the government, won’t.

Par exemple, my bank branch calls itself « agence internationale », claiming there are many people who will talk whatever language you throw at them.  Only if it’s French, because ain’t nobody there who speaks anything else.  Each time I have to deal with something pointlessly technical, complex or day to day with them, it’s conducted in French.  And my god can I hold that shit up good, like Atlas but mastering the complexities of masculin and féminine and laying the ground work with the correct de, du, des, à, au, aux and etc.  How can I?  No fucking idea, but it just comes out.  I don’t think about it and we’re on form.

But I forget this and the many times that I’ve had to explain the hilarity of my own body to a medical professional while some how knowing the words for the respective parts.  When I feel there is no other way out, the French flows.

Why am I rambling on about this?  Because today, I’ve done something mundane as having my television box replaced.  Because she is fucked and I want my TV which I pay for.  I don’t need this nor have I been put in a position where I have to fix this, but I still picked up that phone, called the number and went through the entire ordeal to make this happen.

It doesn’t sound big, but the waining scream of that lack of confidence that just won’t fuck off, kept me from doing that for a few weeks.  Overstepping that shit, that’s a victory, one that brings me back to my end goal.  Banging French Dudes.

How am I bringing myself out of a situation where I’d rather Netflix myself to death?  One word at a time, conguated to perfection.