I'm going post some stream of consciousness entries. I write them uninterrupted and don't edit them except for the worst of the spelling errors.
The faubourg Saint-Germain was green and lush. Plane trees shaded the streets. Lavender, fragrant in the heat, was blooming in courtyard gardens and window pots all around the neighborhood. The smell permeated the streets.
The faubourg Saint-Germain is one of the most chic neighborhoods in Paris. It has some of the most quintessentially Parisian buildings, is full of houses of dead poets and artists, has some of the most well-known museums, and has some terrific restaurants.
The streets were relatively quiet today. A lot of people were abroad for the summer holiday. Still, some people were throwing parties. Tonight’s party was near the Quai de Voltaire at a restaurant that had been privatized. This restaurant has a covered courtyard garden with a second level of tables on the mezzanine.
find a photo that shows courtyard
I arrived early. I sit in a dark corner for a while before it got crowded and I had to start talking to people. I found a table half hidden under a potted tree. I work full time at a lab and don’t get much time to write. I got in a full hour of writing before I had to speak to anybody other than the host.
My author friend Benoit arrived, and a waiter brought us wine. Benoit introduced me to a French girl, Laetitia. I was surprised. In the past, he has only introduced me to non-European women. Like me, he avoids women of western European ancestry on account of their reputation for being superficial and false. I find MIddle Eastern, Asian, and African women to be easier to approach and relate to, and they more often make loyal friends. Laetitia is blond, blue, tall, thin, and sportive. I was reluctant to talk to her. Had he not introduced her and vouched for her, I would have avoided speaking to her and never even made eye contact with her. Like most French girls, she was elegant, dressed nicely, graceful, educated, and cultured.
French women and in particular Parisian women are feminine and are comfortable being feminine. Those qualities are all things I like but are increasingly hard to find in America. My generation of American women dress, talk, and act like the female version of Beavis and Butthead. It’s okay if some people like that, but it’s not my thing.
I have tried hard to learn to screen the rotten girls from the good. For me, it’s a matter of life and death. I’ve put my complete trust in some stinkers. I gave an example about how I almost died before I learned to screen them when I wrote about the Millennium Slut. I've tried to find a girlfriend , a keeper, and have learned to be picky about who they are; . she has to be highly educated or have talents. I never thought about it before, but most of the girls I have gone out with in France are wealthy. I’m a poor foreigner, and here, there is not such a big class barrier in meeting women. Contrary to the US, in Europe, wealth, meaning OLD money, appears to correlate with education, intelligence, and good taste. In the US, I have found a negative correlation with the same thing but a positive correlation with a sense of entitlement and lack of empathy. As for morals, any American trailer park or ghetto has a higher proportion of people with better character than the American upper caste.
Most people don’t know this because the upper caste has become self-isolating. The American upper caste has built its walls to keep out the riffraff. The walls are in the form of the high cost of accessing their hangouts. They don’t want the rest of us to see them close up. The times they are among the non-rich, they are condescending and treat the rest of us like trash. The American upper caste is exemplified by people like Donald Trump, the Bushes, Kardassians, and the Clintons. To be fair, I met some wealthy American expats here who are not like that. Some explain that they relocate here to get away from that mindset.
Maybe it is not just the rich. Most American Women of all castes treat me like trash. My last American girlfriend was from a poor family, and she had the bad taste to go with it. Worse, she was unwilling or unable to see her many stigmata and make improvements. She stopped working on herself after college.
I’ll rant about three of her stigmata. She did not have a moral or political problem with shopping at Walmart. I do.
random non-gross photo of walmart from internet
Despite the fact that I grew up white trash, I had never set foot in a Walmart until I met her. I began reading at a young age and was horrified at Walmart’s dirty secrets. My parents didn’t know and didn’t care when I told them how unethical Walmart was. As if chinese slave labor that made it’s consumer goods isn’t appalling enough, and if the fact that it drove thousands of small local businesses into bankruptcy, the fact that many things that comes from Walmart break the first time you use it should scare away anybody with common sense. But Aelyssa always had an excuse to go to Walmart. I’d rather pay twice as much, go hungry, go without whatever they sold cheaply, and ride my bike 10 miles in the rain than get it at Walmart. The highlight of my parents’ life was watching TV. I had never owned a TV until met her.
I’m allergic to a few kinds of food. Pork is one of them, but that didn’t stop my parents from trying to make me eat it every day. Pork was one of my parents’ favorite foods. Ironically, my father was a Jew, but like most poor people in America, he loved pork. And like many uneducated people in America, he did not believe in allergies. He even cooked it himself - my mother had a mental illness and almost never cooked. They usually ate it three times a day. it started in the morning with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fried pig brains. What began as a fat piece of raw bacon looked like a burnt stick when he was done cooking it. It was always charred all the way through. While it cooked, it emitted heavy clouds of smoke and often caught fire. The kitchen did not have an exhaust fan and the windows did not open. The smoke would get so thick that it burned my eyes, and I could not breath. The smoke was oily, and it would get in my clothes. On school days, I would go around all day smelling like rancid grease. If poverty has a smell, that would be it. Afternoons for my parents were often barbecued pork ribs or a ham sandwich. Salted and cured ham was popular with him. He snacked on chitlins and pork rinds. Suppers, when he cooked, were often pork chops, pigs feet, or ham.
I never liked pork, but when I turned 10 or so, I could no longer even force myself to eat it. Whenever I tried, it made me violently sick and gave me a rash. Still, they always scolded me for not eating it. My parents didn’t believe in allergies and called me a sissy. They said I was pretending to be sick for attention. Allergies were invented by “greedy doctors,” my parents’ term for the medical establishment.
I had mostly been able to avoid it and not eaten a pork chop since I was 10. An exception was when I met my last American girlfriend Aelyssa. Once, she guilted me into eating it despite the fact that I had told her several times recently before that I was allergic to pork. I came home from work one night and found the dining room table laid out for a fancy dinner. There were candles, and it was set with a full meal and cocktails. There several dishes including vegetables, homemade bread, cakes, pudding, and meat. I thought it was a steak. I was happy to see a steak. I had been hinting that I would like to grill some steak. I was impressed and took a photo.
She explained that her father said he knows that a woman is a good cook if she can cook a pork chop correctly. Then she is someone to marry. Her father is Archie Bunker, and sadly, whatever that old fool says is golden to her. That’s when I realized it was a pork chop.
It was obvious she had spent the whole day cooking. It was my birthday which I had not told her about. It was also the first time she prepared an elaborate meal. I wanted to be grateful. I did not remind her for what would have been the 10th time that I cannot eat pork without risking death. There was some medicine in the bathroom that which should prevent a reaction if I took it in time. I thought I would be safe. I ate it and told her what a good cook she was.
Around 3AM, I was jolted into consciousness when I crashed to the floor. I was writhing on the floor next to the bed, my lungs full of vomit. I tried to gasp and my lungs made a raspy, choking sound. I thrashed around and crawled to the wall where I tried to claw a hole through the small window where it met the second story roof and the floor. I didn’t know where I was or what was happening, but I knew I might die. I had been in a dead sleep, and when my oxygen-starved brain realized what was happening, I tried to perform the Heimlich Manouevre on myself. I broke a lamp and knocked over some other furniture.
The lights flashed on. My gf was standing behind me screaming, “ Are you drunk! Are you on drugs! What is your problem! Get back to bed!“ I had never seen her that mad before.
I eventually coughed some of it out and got out enough fluid from my lungs that I could breath again. I vomited out chunks of undigested pork chop. I looked at my hands. My skin was blue all the way up to my shoulders. I realized she would have let me die.
I had puked in my sleep and choked on it. That’s how drunks die. I only had one glass of wine and no drugs that night. When I got back from washing out my mouth in the bathroom, she scolded me for wasting a perfectly good meal and making a mess in the room. She didn’t believe in allergies either.
The faubourg Saint-Germain was green and lush. Plane trees shaded the streets. Lavender, fragrant in the heat, was blooming in courtyard gardens and window pots all around the neighborhood. The smell permeated the streets.
The faubourg Saint-Germain is one of the most chic neighborhoods in Paris. It has some of the most quintessentially Parisian buildings, is full of houses of dead poets and artists, has some of the most well-known museums, and has some terrific restaurants.
The streets were relatively quiet today. A lot of people were abroad for the summer holiday. Still, some people were throwing parties. Tonight’s party was near the Quai de Voltaire at a restaurant that had been privatized. This restaurant has a covered courtyard garden with a second level of tables on the mezzanine.
find a photo that shows courtyard
I arrived early. I sit in a dark corner for a while before it got crowded and I had to start talking to people. I found a table half hidden under a potted tree. I work full time at a lab and don’t get much time to write. I got in a full hour of writing before I had to speak to anybody other than the host.
My author friend Benoit arrived, and a waiter brought us wine. Benoit introduced me to a French girl, Laetitia. I was surprised. In the past, he has only introduced me to non-European women. Like me, he avoids women of western European ancestry on account of their reputation for being superficial and false. I find MIddle Eastern, Asian, and African women to be easier to approach and relate to, and they more often make loyal friends. Laetitia is blond, blue, tall, thin, and sportive. I was reluctant to talk to her. Had he not introduced her and vouched for her, I would have avoided speaking to her and never even made eye contact with her. Like most French girls, she was elegant, dressed nicely, graceful, educated, and cultured.
French women and in particular Parisian women are feminine and are comfortable being feminine. Those qualities are all things I like but are increasingly hard to find in America. My generation of American women dress, talk, and act like the female version of Beavis and Butthead. It’s okay if some people like that, but it’s not my thing.
I have tried hard to learn to screen the rotten girls from the good. For me, it’s a matter of life and death. I’ve put my complete trust in some stinkers. I gave an example about how I almost died before I learned to screen them when I wrote about the Millennium Slut. I've tried to find a girlfriend , a keeper, and have learned to be picky about who they are; . she has to be highly educated or have talents. I never thought about it before, but most of the girls I have gone out with in France are wealthy. I’m a poor foreigner, and here, there is not such a big class barrier in meeting women. Contrary to the US, in Europe, wealth, meaning OLD money, appears to correlate with education, intelligence, and good taste. In the US, I have found a negative correlation with the same thing but a positive correlation with a sense of entitlement and lack of empathy. As for morals, any American trailer park or ghetto has a higher proportion of people with better character than the American upper caste.
Most people don’t know this because the upper caste has become self-isolating. The American upper caste has built its walls to keep out the riffraff. The walls are in the form of the high cost of accessing their hangouts. They don’t want the rest of us to see them close up. The times they are among the non-rich, they are condescending and treat the rest of us like trash. The American upper caste is exemplified by people like Donald Trump, the Bushes, Kardassians, and the Clintons. To be fair, I met some wealthy American expats here who are not like that. Some explain that they relocate here to get away from that mindset.
Maybe it is not just the rich. Most American Women of all castes treat me like trash. My last American girlfriend was from a poor family, and she had the bad taste to go with it. Worse, she was unwilling or unable to see her many stigmata and make improvements. She stopped working on herself after college.
I’ll rant about three of her stigmata. She did not have a moral or political problem with shopping at Walmart. I do.
random non-gross photo of walmart from internet
Despite the fact that I grew up white trash, I had never set foot in a Walmart until I met her. I began reading at a young age and was horrified at Walmart’s dirty secrets. My parents didn’t know and didn’t care when I told them how unethical Walmart was. As if chinese slave labor that made it’s consumer goods isn’t appalling enough, and if the fact that it drove thousands of small local businesses into bankruptcy, the fact that many things that comes from Walmart break the first time you use it should scare away anybody with common sense. But Aelyssa always had an excuse to go to Walmart. I’d rather pay twice as much, go hungry, go without whatever they sold cheaply, and ride my bike 10 miles in the rain than get it at Walmart. The highlight of my parents’ life was watching TV. I had never owned a TV until met her.
I’m allergic to a few kinds of food. Pork is one of them, but that didn’t stop my parents from trying to make me eat it every day. Pork was one of my parents’ favorite foods. Ironically, my father was a Jew, but like most poor people in America, he loved pork. And like many uneducated people in America, he did not believe in allergies. He even cooked it himself - my mother had a mental illness and almost never cooked. They usually ate it three times a day. it started in the morning with a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and fried pig brains. What began as a fat piece of raw bacon looked like a burnt stick when he was done cooking it. It was always charred all the way through. While it cooked, it emitted heavy clouds of smoke and often caught fire. The kitchen did not have an exhaust fan and the windows did not open. The smoke would get so thick that it burned my eyes, and I could not breath. The smoke was oily, and it would get in my clothes. On school days, I would go around all day smelling like rancid grease. If poverty has a smell, that would be it. Afternoons for my parents were often barbecued pork ribs or a ham sandwich. Salted and cured ham was popular with him. He snacked on chitlins and pork rinds. Suppers, when he cooked, were often pork chops, pigs feet, or ham.
I never liked pork, but when I turned 10 or so, I could no longer even force myself to eat it. Whenever I tried, it made me violently sick and gave me a rash. Still, they always scolded me for not eating it. My parents didn’t believe in allergies and called me a sissy. They said I was pretending to be sick for attention. Allergies were invented by “greedy doctors,” my parents’ term for the medical establishment.
I had mostly been able to avoid it and not eaten a pork chop since I was 10. An exception was when I met my last American girlfriend Aelyssa. Once, she guilted me into eating it despite the fact that I had told her several times recently before that I was allergic to pork. I came home from work one night and found the dining room table laid out for a fancy dinner. There were candles, and it was set with a full meal and cocktails. There several dishes including vegetables, homemade bread, cakes, pudding, and meat. I thought it was a steak. I was happy to see a steak. I had been hinting that I would like to grill some steak. I was impressed and took a photo.
She explained that her father said he knows that a woman is a good cook if she can cook a pork chop correctly. Then she is someone to marry. Her father is Archie Bunker, and sadly, whatever that old fool says is golden to her. That’s when I realized it was a pork chop.
It was obvious she had spent the whole day cooking. It was my birthday which I had not told her about. It was also the first time she prepared an elaborate meal. I wanted to be grateful. I did not remind her for what would have been the 10th time that I cannot eat pork without risking death. There was some medicine in the bathroom that which should prevent a reaction if I took it in time. I thought I would be safe. I ate it and told her what a good cook she was.
Around 3AM, I was jolted into consciousness when I crashed to the floor. I was writhing on the floor next to the bed, my lungs full of vomit. I tried to gasp and my lungs made a raspy, choking sound. I thrashed around and crawled to the wall where I tried to claw a hole through the small window where it met the second story roof and the floor. I didn’t know where I was or what was happening, but I knew I might die. I had been in a dead sleep, and when my oxygen-starved brain realized what was happening, I tried to perform the Heimlich Manouevre on myself. I broke a lamp and knocked over some other furniture.
The lights flashed on. My gf was standing behind me screaming, “ Are you drunk! Are you on drugs! What is your problem! Get back to bed!“ I had never seen her that mad before.
I eventually coughed some of it out and got out enough fluid from my lungs that I could breath again. I vomited out chunks of undigested pork chop. I looked at my hands. My skin was blue all the way up to my shoulders. I realized she would have let me die.
I had puked in my sleep and choked on it. That’s how drunks die. I only had one glass of wine and no drugs that night. When I got back from washing out my mouth in the bathroom, she scolded me for wasting a perfectly good meal and making a mess in the room. She didn’t believe in allergies either.