I was drunk last night. It was our company's party. I like to be drunk, and so I never drink alcohol unless other people are supplying me with it for two reasons. The first is some subconscious genetic memory that I would in fact be an alcoholic, with ease, were I to allow myself to become one. The other memory is one that alcohol is most potent when you have not prepared yourself for a tolerance to it.
Abstinence.
Abstnence.
Abisynthe.
Ewwww.
So, once in a while, when the stars align just right, and the company begins dispensing free booze, squeezing the lemon of our pasty-faced employees for that last drop of blood that is in fact a sweet tonique that washes over the tongue and make a man think thoughts in another tempo, and dis les mots en francais. C'est bon pour la qu'il a les personnes qui parles en la langue qu'il dit. Pourqoui? Parce ce que, as he dit beaucoup temps le nuit avent, il a apprendre francais pour sept ans - SEPT ANS, au lycee, and avant, en l'ecole, mais il ne parle pas francais. En fact, il a oubliee tout les mots parce ce que jamaias - jamais, personne, rien, n'est pas les personnes qui parler francais avec il.
Mais, apres que I left the company party to drop by Molly's on Castro Street, leaving that liqour which they had found objectionable for me to have brought with myself from Tellme, and waiving the cover charge which I normally grant to them my three dollars, but last night I did walk it, why? Because, like the very handsome muscular black man who dances the dance avec tout les filles jolies, I am a regular. And I wander in to the back and I head back by the dance floor and right there - right there are there three beautiful women whom I know from before. Elles s'appelent Jenny, Brandy, and Kenny. You get les noms like that quand tu emigres a Chine, et tu prend un nom qui n'est pas en chinois, parce ce que les Americans ne dit pas les phonology chinois.
And, once in a while, there is beauty to alcohol, because a man the next night has enjoyed some vivid dreams, that did not involve LDAP schema, or the backend jiggering that a Unix AFP implementation must do to properly support les resource forks du Macintosh, and other such unpleasant ideas that are in the head when one has been at the place of working for somewhat more than is great for the healthy mind. You know, he is coming up from the experience previous, and he is feeling well, and he is feeling unobligated about going out, going out to the place of work and making an appearance because he is not expected of him for to do so, and then he says you know what? Must speak, must declare a la journal les mots qui il penser dans la moment.
Un moment.
It is a writing experiment. Write the way the mind bends itself upon to become one that might translate itself with coherence, but not great beauty, in to a langue qui est foreign pour il, if he only knew the words. The words, that which he types, quand il refer to himself as "il," le babelfish translate himself as "it" which is not without such charm as when he thinks of it.
Oui?
Yes.
So, les personnes loire les mots en francais et comprendes-la en peu ... et les personne qui regarde a les mots Anglais, they feel not any better than the Francophones, parce ce que, because, they read the words that are meditated for in a state ready to translate in to a vocabulary which it does not possess.
Tu comprende? Tu comprende? Je dis a toi! Maintenant! I do not conjugate well, les verbes, because it is hard. It is silly to do so, en l'humble opinion m'en a. Ah well. Have you had the taste for reading the words that dannyman did write? I knew you would. I think he shall nap just a tiny bit more, drift in the groggy state of morning consciousness that is so often in his own vein early in the morning, que l'heur dix en la matin.
Au revoir! Merci a loire les mots dannyman!
12 May
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24 May
/journal
dannyman.toldme