Diary of Michael P. McClure. Entry 1.

I’m writing this at 0-800.  The date is July 7th.  The place is Paris, France.  Before all this, those sort of details actually meant something to me, no, they meant everything.  But when you’re alien to everything around you location is of little importance.  When you have nowhere to be time is just a number, like 12, or 58, or 90. Or 7…or 114.

Back home seems a million miles away.  In Paris the days are short and the nights long.  Today’s word of the day, as always, is “Survive.”  I try to keep the men’s (James and Henry’s) morale high but facing adversity is as foreign to them as the language the French speak, which I call “Sort-of-Mexican.”  James calls it “French,” but he wasn’t breastfed and can’t be trusted.

Paris is just so different.  Wifi is scarce.  Our fifth generation iPhones only get 4G as opposed to the LTE we’re accustomed to back home.  LTE cost $3 more on top of the already pretty stiff international roaming fee.  Huh, I suppose the men’s sacrifice isn’t payment enough.

I’ve been letting Henry use my phone to check if girls have liked his Instagram photos.  My phone is faster than his and I can make due without it for now.  I grew up in Greenbrae where you get used to surviving without those sorts of comforts.  In my house if someone was driving the Lexus you drove the Jeep and that’s just the way it was.

Hopefully the Edward Sharpe concert tonight will improve morale.  I hella hope I get laid.  I know it won’t come easy but I’ll still try.  French dudes (the competition) try super hard at fashion, looking fit, and showering, none of which come naturally to me.  Worst case I’ll come home alone and masturbate in the bathroom.  James and Henry will eventually bang on the door urging me to hurry up.  The bang of his fists will conjure nightmarish flashbacks of learning about army vets who have nightmarish flashbacks caused by loud banging.

No matter though, I’ll beat on.

On my penis and on down  a metaphorical river of hardship and longing.  In an instant the pressure will become too great and a spray will greet my unsuspecting face.  From then on the idiom “Shooting Yourself in the Foot” will forever take a backseat to “Shooting Yourself in the Face.”  And so it goes…

After cleaning myself up James heads into the bathroom complaining about how badly he has to pee.  Not sure I remember urination involving the sounds of friction and weeping, but hell, I’m not sure of anything anymore.

So we press on, the sun’s rays slapping our backs and crisping our exposed nipples leaving them coarse and National Geographic-y.   But hey, when you’re going through hell you keep going…unless you stop for a gelato or a really old building that’s worthy of a Facebook picture.

Goodbye for now.

 

Signed,

 

Michael McClure

Paris, France

7, July Two Thousand Thirteenth Year

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