bee-york

I am a limited child in french. My ambiguous speak n'existe pas in the language of love. yet. Alors they make us cram into a French writing lab for our three page papers of adult third gradedness. The Frenchies run the lab pretty tight. I always end up arguing with the Frenchie. She can cross out my sentences, je m'en fiche. But what about my voice. My, you make me sound so dry and not of dry sense of humour (British?). And so I argue my points and refuse to change phrases every once in a while. At least I'll have character even if it is grammatically incorrect and makes no sense to the proper madame who peruses words and not spaces. Have you no sense of humanity, woman?! I become the outraged américainne shaking my fists on front pages of futility.
Does it just take time? Do I have to lose myself in the meantime? Why won't France accept me?

There's a winter dying to fill up the outside. October 16th? Don't surrender outside! It's not time yet. I want galoshes and wool socks first!

Today I brought a long mixing spoon to the dishwashers. There wasn't anyone there. So I rinsed it off, dear woman who job coaches for the boys, she keeps getting burnt pots. So I rinsed my barbeque spoon off. I turned around and what should I see in the corner but the film quoter. He was sitting cross legged, arms folded, head down. Was he praying? Was he sleeping? How long had he been there? Most importantly how had he blended in?