Posted: Sunday, May 17, 2009 | |

Happy Sunday! I had this absolutely amazing dream last night. Or not a dream exactly, but one of those strange almost awake musings that you have approximately 30% control over. For example, you can make the psuedo dream about muffins, but by god if those muffins don't decide to invade Russia instead of calmly bake themselves. This musing was made up entirely of Philippe speaking French; to me, on the phone, to me again. And ohhh internet, I made up the entire conversation, this conversation made up entirely of French, and it hit me that holy! shit! I can totally speak French, beautiful, full fledged francais, it's just stuck somewhere deep in my subconcious! I have been trying to think of ways to unstop this language constipation for, you know, reality, but have been unsucessful so far. I know this because while Philippe was on the phone this morning, he was telling his friend we were having a lazy weekend and said something along the lines of, "Kate est un peu fou", and well, did he just call me crazy? Okay, a little crazy? And what the frick, fou instead of folie, did I just grow a penis or whhhhatt? Then the dialogue about how it french all sounds fooouuuuuuuu anyway. Like you're saying 'fool!' but ghetto lingo style, FOOOO!

In conclusion, I need to give birth to the french language soon, lest my dreams haunt me into real craziness. Also, a big big big fashion designer wants some more of philippe's creative genius after the book he designed ran through the veritable fashion editorial or rather just fucking ridiculous high end editorial gauntlet like no one's business. I wanted to make some metaphor involving a spring faun and I have no idea why, but let's just say it went smoooooth. Like cuban cigar smooooth. and the outcome? FOU! Good fou. My man's a hot piece, and the only thing I find fault with is how he looks so hot all the damn time. I feel like a basketfull of hell today, bloated and nasty and likely to spout estrogen from my eyes, and he's all, 'let me just lounge against the radiator in a t-shirt and underwear while I talk to J about people wanting my creative genius while simultaneously looking FLAWLESS and somehow, quite magically, tanned.'

Oh fou. poo. But I guess I get to reap the fruits of that one so I shouldn't complain. I want more testosterone, RIGHT NOW. Preferably a dose located inside a cupcake, or 4.

edit: I also just realized I never activated that little helpful thing where when people comment on your blog, you get an email, and now I feel like a complete ass because I haven't been giving back love I never knew I received. BE READY! Love is a comin'. Because we love honesty, probably sometime in the middle of this week. But the loving will be so amazing that the wait will be worth it. Je t'aime, vraiment, mon petit beurres. (yes I just called you my little butters).

2 comments:

  1. abby said...
  2. Testosterone cupcakes!! I will take one... in "man" flavor please. :D

  3. amythewolf said...
  4. mes petites buerres, it's plural.
    you'll get the language thing, if.you.leave.the.apartment.

    i'm not really that hurt anymore. i know you were fucked up, i was fucked up too. i thought we could have been in it together. mon coeur, il a explosé la. il explose en train de penser de ma apartement, mon chat, le métro. c'est une belle ville pour être dans l'amour, c'est une belle ville à la dépression.
    Je suis à New York la, c'est mieux ici. Je ne pleure pas tous les jours.

    we can talk in french if you want. im still in love with you, you dont have to buy me 20 drinks, i'll take 6. i'll buy you hair dye and nailpolish. les vêtements, tu peut les garder, je les oublier.....

    xoxoxo
    amy

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