I just turned the heat on. I though I could make it to November, but I just couldn't shake the chill off me. Tant pis. It smells, the heat. That strange burning, slightly noxious odor that most heaters give off when you first turn them on. I'm afraid it's poisoning me, that it's really carbon monoxide and I'm going to be found dead in bed 10 days from now - well maybe less considering that there are people that would be worried about me if I didn't show up for work on Monday. But nevertheless, I may expire shortly.
At least, I will see my Chabal for the last time - that sexy beast of a rugby player. They call him l'homme des cavernes (the caveman) here and it seems that even the most masculine Parisians I know have man-crushes on him. I've had all sorts of Clan-of-the-Cavebear type fantasies involving him, dressed in a minuscule animal pelt coming upon me in the woods and ravishing me (obviously, not against my will). Why am I admitting this?
So tonight I will watch my would-be lover with his powerful thighs and flowing hair battle the Argentines as I, lonely soul home with just a dog to keep me company, devour a pizza from Speed Rabbit while surrounded by possibly noxious and deadly odors. Nothing brings home the fact that you are a single girl home alone on a Friday night like being forced to order two medium-sized pizzas for yourself (and the dog) in order to get the best deal - 2 for 1. Literally, in my case. I figure I'll just freeze the rest and for the price of 13 euros will be living on pizza for a week. Sniff. Feel very whiny and angsty...
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