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Parisian drugs.

Last summer, I brought a friend to Paris with me for a séjour comprised of five days, planning to see all the sights we could possibly cram into that short week. (Despite my going back there every five months or so after moving from France to Britain when I was five, I never took the tine to appreciate the hotspots of the city.) If I’m honest, I’ve always preferred the UK to Paris (something about the ethics and culture) but it was completely different when I brought someone else along for the ride, the famous city being placed under the microscope. It became even clearer that Paris isn’t the picture-perfect fairyland you’ve been lead to believe. Turns out the Eiffel Tower is just a heap of metal and the rats that skitter under the métro tracks aren’t as friendly as the ones Disney sketched out. The aroma of beautiful, artisan coffee is soon replaced by the stench of ashy cigarettes, and trust me, the graffiti hurriedly sprawled on any kind of free space quickly becomes a lot less ‘artistic’ and a lot more distasteful. 
On one particularly hot afternoon, after an unpleasantly sticky métro ride, we spilled out onto the streets of paris and only wandered about 200 metres before I saw a sight that has been burned into my brain since. A homeless man was hobbling past us, his sign in one hand and his other weathered hand desperately clutching a syringe. Now the homeless population of France is disgustingly high and shockingly visible in everday life, so (unfortunately) this wasn’t the aspect of this disturbing sight that shook me so much. I was astounded that he was carrying on something so unsustainable, regardless of whatever position you are in, especially in his situation. Acknowledging that this massive issue could possibly have been the cause of this (financial and emotional) mess to begin with, this was one of the first time I fully began to understand the devastating effects of drug use.

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What you don’t know.

I don’t have nicknames yet people still try to make it a thing. I have books on my shelf begging to be read yet I still find myself buying more. I doodle often and somehow they all end up looking like I tried to copy a five year old’s finger painting. And failed. When I can’t sleep at night, I go over the following day’s schedule again and again, trying to smooth out wrinkles in my plans. I try to save greeting cards and and letters but I always end up losing them. Actually, I lose a lot of things. When I go into a place with people I know, the grandiosity of my entrance will depend on my energy levels. I don’t look at myself in the mirror that often, but I feel like it is too much. Not because it is a vain or self-absorbed thing to do, but because I feel so much more confident when I’m not constantly reminded of the flaws in my physical appearance. A guilty pleasure I enjoy way too much to give up is internet (not that I have a lot of it, my mobile data is close to non-existent and I have no wifi at home). I read the newspaper almost everyday, skipping most of it but getting really absorbed in articles about things like feminism, LGBTQ+ rights, racism and current politics. The sports section is something that is never even browsed through. I’d like to be less stubborn but that will probably never change. Let’s just pretend it’s a good quality for now.The scariest insect I’ve encountered is a crane fly. Why do you need that many legs? I’m mostly likely to engage confrontation. If I’m upset about something I won’t let it sit, I’d much rather talk about it than pretend it doesn’t bother me. I’m s creature of habit. The last time I pushed my physical limits was so long ago I can’t remember. I have a lot of acquaintances and few very close friends. I think about death a lot, not in a morbid way – more philosophically. It amazes me that turtles have yet to run for presidency yet Donald Trump is a serious candidate. I would prefer someone be straight up with me then to temper their words. I respect propel who are outspoken with their beliefs, as long as they don’t force it upon others. My perfect study arrangement is alone in my room. I sleep on my side. My favourite city is San Juan in Puerto Rico, however, I think many flaws would come to light if I lived there 24/7. Much like anywhere else. Ignorance is not bliss. I don’t think anything is unforgivable but I find it difficult to forgive. It’s even harder to forgive myself for past personal failures. I’m sure I have any convictions I’d be willing to die for. I think it’s extremely important to be honest with yourself. I am a messy person, both literally and figuratively. 

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That one thing you did to me that one time.

That one thing you did to me, that one time. Do you remember? I do. I don’t think I’ll forget about it soon. I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want to seem petty and childish. But, that one thing you did to me, that one time? I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, I never really let it go. When you tell a joke, I’ll laugh. If you compliment me, I’ll smile and thank you. It’s just, that one thing you did to me, that one time? It’s the only thing on my mind. Because, as it turns out, it wasn’t only that one thing, that one time. You’ve done so many little things, and they gnaw at me at night. I don’t tell you because I don’t get hurt. I’m not sensitive. I have a thick skin. Well I’m meant to anyway. And if, all of a sudden, that’s not true… Maybe you won’t like me anymore. So, that’s why. That’s why I never told you about that thing you did to me, that one time. Because it was just a joke, not to be taken seriously.

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