Every single time I tweet about how I’m having a bad day, there are always a few people who reply to me saying basically the same thing: “You live in Paris! How could you ever have a bad day?!” How could I have had a bad/frustrating day? Oh, let me count the ways: I’ve been to a grocery store. I’ve spoken just, at all. I’ve been on the metro. I needed Epsom salts. I needed aspirin. I needed to get somewhere fast. I needed something done fast. I needed to recharge my monthly metro pass. I needed to find walnuts. I needed something normal, but instead almost bought tongue.
To me, there is nothing more intimidating/frightening than the meat/things-that-used-to-be-living-but-now-can-be-eaten aisle/stall at a grocery store/outdoor market. Americans are clearly not very inventive with their animal proteins or it seems that the French will eat any part of an animal, no matter what animal that actually is.
SAUCE CANNOT COVER UP EVERYTHING, FRANCE.
And don’t even get me started on the oceanic area of an outdoor market. There are things I didn’t even know existed in the sea and definitely some of them do not look edible. How do these people understand how to cook a weird shiny white fish/shrimp/clam/thing? Is that a clam? A mussel? A barnacle!? What are you, weird sea creatures that are oddly edible! I’m amazed and horrified by you! Stop looking at me with your dead, open fish eyes. Why is everything served either raw or still intact in France? Who’s a girl gotta blow around here to get a fish without its eyes looking up at me before I tear open its flesh to nourish myself?
Also, why are you eating raw hamburger meat with a raw egg on top and CALLING THIS A DELICACY? This is disgusting, unhygienic, and really fucking lazy. The French are known for their cooking AND YET one of their most famous dishes is uncooked meat aside a plate full of fries. OH YOU GO GET DOWN WITH YOUR BAD COOKING SELF, FRANCE. I could nevvvvvverrrrr master raw meat.
Steak tartare? How about steak throw the eff up in a wine carafe?
Although, I will say something. Goddamn you France and your goddamn amazing damn baguettes. And the pastries! And the macarons! Stop it. And your insistence on me drinking Perrier, which fuck you, I LOVE. Now, I’m paying money for fancy water and I feel like a huge asshole. There are people in Somalia who don’t even have water and here I am, Miss Prissy Pants, drinking her Perrier with a lemon wedge. A LEMON WEDGE? REALLY.
Are you happy now, France? Somalia hates me. I’m spending half my budget on fancy water. And one of your representatives who works at the metro station shouted at me in front of fifty other people because I was stupidly attempting to get information from the information window.
At this point, I don’t even know who I hate more: you or myself.