5 reasons why it sucks if you're 28 and still at university

reason one: you should have a job by then. The only reason you don't have a job is you don't seriously look for one. You prefer to read books, sit on your ass and listen to some teacher who has nothing left to teach you. Shame on you, you're extra-smart, useless and lazy.

reason two: there's nothing more depressing than the view of a young female student panicking before an exam, re-reading her notes till the last minute with a bottle of mineral water put on her exam table.

reason three: university is full of left-wing activists who have bad influence over the other students. Their poisonous preaching turns them away from the only noble goal in life: be smarter than the one next to you, earn more money, have a better job and screw better-looking chicks.

reason four: I don't have a reason four.

reason five: university overtime extends your youth. It delays the ageing process, which may cause the Stelzer syndrom: a permanent inability to fit to the English way of life (although it remains hard even for the scientists to find a proper explanation for this).

Do I want to fuck her?

That was quite a day. I almost forgot I had to attend a lesson at university. Then I almost forgot someone had to do a presentation during that lesson. And I also almost forgot it was the blonde Milena who was doing the presentation.

It's ten past two when I arrive in the classroom, and she has already started. She wears a grey dress, black skin-tights and yellow heels. I sit on the nearest chair and I realize she also wears a necklace, a watch and a bracelet. She's tall, she's blonde, she's from Poland and she speaks to us about Christian Dior's communication policy.
She uses Powerpoint to back her speaking. Grey slides follow one another and I can't take my eyes off her. The way she says "python bag" and "crocodile skin" is cold and sexy. She got her hair streaked and it definitely suits her. I really want to fuck her at this precise moment.

But then she doesn't look at me when she hands me the company's catalogue. A real step backwards. Even the price booklet smells like Christian Dior's Midnight Poison, and I feel I'm about to commit a crime. The crisis passes on and her voice tames me once again.
"You've probably heard of John Galliano and Kriss von Asche, she says. They both worked for Christian Dior." I don't want to hear that shit, it makes me ashamed to be myself. Plus she really sounds posh when she says that and I'm scared of posh girls.

"We import stuff from Milan, Berlin and also from Dubai", she adds. "Would you go there with me?", I ask her silently. Probably if I was John fucking Galliano. Fame and money, that's all you care for, isn't it, bitch? I keep all that for myself and she moves on to another topic. "The company offers cocktails and gives private parties, she says. All the staff is welcome to join. It's important to make the employees feel like they're part of a team." So she's really posh, then. I can visualize her strinding along the 2nd floor of some parisian private hotel, holding a glass of champagne and ignoring the guys who stare at her. I don't want to fuck her anymore.

The presentation comes to and end. She gives us a last piece of information. "Did you know Christian Dior invented the scissors for left-handers?" Mr Teacher knew. We didn't. We were too obsessed by her to really listen to anything she said. When it's all finished, Mr Teacher claps his hands and invites us to do the same.
Then he asks us if we have something to ask. I raise my hand and say: "Sorry, Milena, I'm afraid my question is totally irrelevant. But can I still ask it?"
She looks embarrased. Everybody stares at me. But she gives me her permission, and so I ask: "Do I want to fuck you?"

A day in life

One day humanity will look back in time and say: nothing substantial happened on Wednesay, the 29th of October 2008. Wrong.

First I woke up at 9 AM. This is bloody early. The Sri Lankan Sloth Bear never wakes up before noon and it usually has much more vital things to do than me: find a honey tree, scratch his back on the ground, and try to stay for one more day the last-living ambassador of its kind.
I just had a private lesson to give. A schoolboy of the luxurial 16th arrondissement badly needed me to help him sit on his chair, open his book and start reading what was inside. I get paid for that.

I did my duty and then had lunch at my mother's place. Bad news awaited me there: her Vietnamese guest was there too, preparing his meal in the kitchen. I have nothing against Asian food apart from the fact that I may have something against Asian food. Being a Vietnamese and thus a complete stanger to intercultural matters, he still offered us nems while I was about to eat my pepper steak. To make it even worst, he left and didn't apologize for Dien Bien Phu and the Vienam War. These people are really something.

At 2 PM I came back home and masturbated thinking about someone I know, and then I wrote a blog entry. The one that will earn me an international warrant of arrest from the authorities of Botswana.

When 5 PM came, I did my share of studying at the University. I walked to La Sorbonne, entered one of the classrooms and sat down as far as possible as everyone. Not because I don't like them but because I was stinking a bit. No shower, same old clothes and an unexplainable smell of tobacco mixed with sweat and scum.
The teacher stepped in and the lesson started, only to be interrupted a few seconds later by a Chinese student who came and sat next to me. He looked very happy to do so and even had a chat with me.

When the lesson ended and it was time for us to go back to our tiny Parisian flats, I managed to unstick my fellow classmate using a caustic soda and went home trying to avoid any new encounter with the Far-East.
I now sit on my chair and I think about cooking dinner. And I already know there won't be rice, yellow sauce and noodles among the ingredients.