mardi 30 septembre 2008

Ugh...

I hate early.

I just did that thing, when I was putting on my eyeliner. You know, when you put exactly the right amount on one eye. Enough so that you clearly have eyes but subtle enough for a lecture at 8am (I swear I do not know what's wrong with french universities. Sadists one and all) on a Wednesday morning.

Then I move my hand to my other eye, and somewhere in the space between it decides that I would be much better served going to Droit Constitutionnel 1 looking like Cleopatra on acid. Then I'm left with the age old dilemma - do I attempt to remove the splodge on my eyelid, or do I just extend the line to encompass it?

Bear in mind that removal of liquid eyeliner is a highly risky procedure, especially when, like me, you never have a q-tip to hand. So line extension is ideally the solution. But there must be a point when it stops being an option. Otherwise I will soon find myself spending my mornings colouring in my face.

It is too early to consider things of such importance. Like I said; ugh.

dimanche 28 septembre 2008

I love a douchebag

So today, I didn't get round to a) dressing or b) leaving my appartment. Which I don't feel too bad about because in France EVERYTHING is closed on Sunday. Plus I had a hangover and a vague sense of embarrassment about my behaviour last night to contend with. So what I did instead was watch the entire third season of How I Met Your Mother.

Firstly, that show is awesome. Insert obligatory 'legen - wait for it - dary' reference here. But the main thing I noticed was that I was developing a crush of epic proportions, not on Ted Mosby(the most charming man on tv) or super sweet Marshall, but on total asshat Barney. I am actually upset by the fact that Neil Patrick Harris is gay.

And then I started thinking; this is not an isolated incident. I really love a fictional douchebag. I heart Chuck Bass beyond measure. McSteamy or McDreamy? Give me steamy, any time. And thow in some Karev while you're at it. Logan Echolls will always hold a place in my heart, and was never hotter than when he was pounding the crap out of totally innocent nice boy Piz. I am consistently attracted to whichever fictional character is most likely to treat women with no respect whatsoever.

That, of course, is stupid. The entire bad-boy thing is one of the most self destructive traits a woman can have. But it is so undeniably there! Today I watched impassively as Ted put his all into wildly romantic gestures, then watched Barney recount jut some of the thousands of ways he has screwed girls over and thought 'Damn. I'd tap that'. So just what is it that makes a bad boy so irrestistable?

The popular theory is, of course, that women see the total tool as a challenge. That there would be a victory in being the one person who could tame him, that just isn't equalled by the triumph of managing to snag a guy who's already wonderful. I think there is something in that, but for me, the main attraction is that any act of kindness, no matter how small, is worth so much more coming from a bad guy.

Think about it. If we'd learned that trustworthy Ted had flown to San Fran to convince Lily to come back to Marshall it would have been no big deal. Sweet, but that's Ted for you. The same act from commitment phobe Barney? Mind blowing. And hot. Ted was in love with Robin by the end of the first episode. So what? Three years on Barney decides he might have feelings for her weeks after they've slept together? The most romantic thing I've ever heard!

The same applies to all of the other characters I mentioned. Chuck Bass secretly selling his shares in his beloved burlesque club to help his best friend out? Awesome. And that brings me to another point - he didn't want the friend to know that he'd done it. With that, ladies and gentlemen, I am sold. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, hotter than a guy who is secretly nice. A guy who will go to great lengths to conceal his humanity and maintain the carefully propogated myth that he is a complete douchetard. I love it.

And it's not just are their kindnesses worth more than those of guys who wear their niceness with pride - George O'Malley can be as lovely as he likes but Alex Karev saving a baby while talking sports will always leave him for dust. It is a simple fact that bad guys are just more interesting. Nobody who's read Sense and Sensibility can seriously prefer the integrity of the Colonel to the dashing, if caddish, charms of Willoughby. I'm just saying, a lady likes a hint of danger to spice things up.

But I think there is at least one point of genuine merit for the bad boy contingent - at least you know what to expect. You can dream of being the one woman who will make him see the error of his ways, but you go to bed with a Barney and he never calls? You should have known what you were getting into. The douchey traits of a Ted or a McDreamy (and they will have some, trust me) are far more difficult to predict and often more devastating on revelation. Plus, with a Barney you will never lose the moral high ground, and who doesn't love to be right?

So for me, it's case closed. Despite a lingering suspicion that the secret softer side is only obligatory to bad boys in the fictional world, and that for the most part people who appear to be asshats are just that, I just... love a douchebag. At least it's never dull.

dimanche 21 septembre 2008

So, lost in France.

There are times when I just wonder; why? Why on earth did, as a 18 year old English student decide that a three year law degree at a top uni was simply not challenging enough and I would love to pick up my belongings, take off to some French city I've never even visited where I know nobody and spend a year attempting to study law in French?

And why, after I applied late and without the correct form, and after I turned up for my interview too hungover to focus on anything but Burger King, did my uni think it would be a good idea to let me go? Even after my attendance and exam records had shown that my devotion to my studies was, well, questionable at best?

And, for the love of God, why did I not think to worry about any of this in the year between being offered my place at Rouen university and my actually going? WHY DID I NOT REALLY TRY TO PRACTICE MY FRENCH?!

But then I go calm down and take off the caps lock and think it through. And it makes a little bit of sense.

Because, you see, it is a little bit insane for me to be studying French law. But anybody who examined my academic record and disposition would see that it's not so much the French part as the law part that's crazy. I bore easy, and self motivate rarely, and they are two things which are decidedly not useful in a lawyer. What's more, I am truly, hideously, unorganised (see above re. incorrect form, late application etc.). I send a lot of my time sending frantic emails to various authorities assuring them that things must have gotten lost in the post. Soooo not model law student behaviour.

France, on the other hand, has always been my thing. Not so much the grammar, but the language generally, the atmosphere, the country. Cheese, wine and baguettes have always appealed to me. So, yeah, I wanted to go to France. That's what I'd been telling people since I was thirteen, and when the opportunity came up I applied.

Why my uni opted to send me is a little bit harder to understand. I mean, I am far from stupid (I wouldn't have been at that uni in the first place if I wasn't), but amongst the people on my course I'm average at best intelligence-wise and considerably below average in terms of commitment. And my grades, in first year especiallyhave always reflected this.

But what I am, besides lazy and disorganised, is a good bullshitter. I mean a tremendously good bullshitter. I am the girl who wins national debate contests from the floor because I'm not on the team because I forgot to prepare a speech for audition day (yeah, people totally hate me). So my innate bullshitting skills must have come to the fore on interview day, through the hangover, and persuaded the law department that I was exactly the sort of confident go-getter who would reap all of the benefits a year abroad has to offer.

Why I didn't prepare for France in the subsequent year is completely simple. I told you already, I never prepare properly. In short, I am rubbish (but good at concealing that fact). And now I, at the age of 20, live in France. And it is really... weird.

Like, completely weird. Not bad, just strange. Surreal, really. I've managed to procure an appartment (score), a roomate (hmm) and a student ID (just amazed I got round to it), but I still really have no idea what this year is going to be like. It's a mystery.

So, I thought, what better reason to attempt keeping a blog (again)? It's not like I have that many people to talk to - and I'm fairly limited in what I could say anyway - either by my french vocab or by the fact that what I have to say might offend french people. And who knows - something interesting might actually happen.

So, a plus tard!

N