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The Rouen entry remains half-finished. I have an eight page paper due in the morning of which I've only written a hundred words.
I'm having a small crisis. A huge crisis. I just. I don't want to go home.
I have no money. I have no career prospects. No romantic prospects. Did I mention no money? My fandom will be on the other side of the ocean and then, after a month, over forever. Flo will go be a rock star and Patrice will keep making depressing movies and neither of them will ever see me again and eventually they're going to forget I existed. The other fans will move on and start taking pictures with people I don't recognise because I'm never going to care about Dracula or Adam & Eve or anything the way I care about Mozart l'Opéra Rock. I'm going to work my butt off in my boring cinema job and barely making enough money to pay the rent, much less buy clothes and food, and I'm going to gain all that weight back and be right back where I started. In January we'll get kicked out of our apartment but we won't have enough money to follow our dreams and move to New York and we'll just have to stay in North Carolina, in a college town that dies over the summer when the students leave yet somehow also manages to trap graduates and keep them there, no better than townies.
Maybe one day Patrice Maktav will be cleaning out his apartment and he'll find Doll Ponte and be like Oh! I remember that American Mozart fan who knitted us all dolls! Huh. And he'll jam it onto a shelf somewhere and go back to his life. He has had thousands of fans in the past ten years, ever since he first became famous. I'm just the one who barely spoke French and who knew how to knit.
I'm having a small crisis. A huge crisis. I just. I don't want to go home.
I have no money. I have no career prospects. No romantic prospects. Did I mention no money? My fandom will be on the other side of the ocean and then, after a month, over forever. Flo will go be a rock star and Patrice will keep making depressing movies and neither of them will ever see me again and eventually they're going to forget I existed. The other fans will move on and start taking pictures with people I don't recognise because I'm never going to care about Dracula or Adam & Eve or anything the way I care about Mozart l'Opéra Rock. I'm going to work my butt off in my boring cinema job and barely making enough money to pay the rent, much less buy clothes and food, and I'm going to gain all that weight back and be right back where I started. In January we'll get kicked out of our apartment but we won't have enough money to follow our dreams and move to New York and we'll just have to stay in North Carolina, in a college town that dies over the summer when the students leave yet somehow also manages to trap graduates and keep them there, no better than townies.
Maybe one day Patrice Maktav will be cleaning out his apartment and he'll find Doll Ponte and be like Oh! I remember that American Mozart fan who knitted us all dolls! Huh. And he'll jam it onto a shelf somewhere and go back to his life. He has had thousands of fans in the past ten years, ever since he first became famous. I'm just the one who barely spoke French and who knew how to knit.
