Ayant été tagué par Mégane, je me prends au jeu (partiellement) : voici mes 7 confessions, 7 choses sur moi (Julien) que personne (ou presque) ne sait. Et si je ne taguerai pas 7 autres personnes, je recommande cet exercice qui donne le vertige...
1) La première fille dont j'ai été ''amoureux'' s'appelait Anne. Nous étions en maternelle ensemble à Mandelieu la Napoule.
2) En écrivant le 1) je me suis rendu compte que je n'avais pas pensé à cela depuis longtemps, et je me demande quelle influence cela peut avoir sur mon obsession pour ce prénom.
3) Ma première ''fiancée'' s'appelait Marine. Elle m’a « largué » un matin en voyant que je m’étais fait couper les cheveux courts (ce que ma mère et mon beau-père m’avaient obligé à faire cette année-là, j’avais 8 ans).
4) Je me souviens de l’enterrement de mon oncle Pepino, à Milan. Je me souviens de le voir dans le cercueil, et je me souviens de l’odeur des fleurs. Je devais avoir 4 ans. Depuis, quand je sens cette odeur, je pense à cette scène. Je crois que personne ne le sait.
5) J’aime quand les gens me disent que je ressemble à ma mère. Au-delà de la fierté (je la trouve belle), j’aime me sentir connecté et rattaché à elle aux yeux du monde.
6) J’ai pleuré pendant tout un après-midi, vers l’âge de 4 ans, lorsque j’ai réalisé qu’un jour j’allais mourir.
7) J’ai menti un nombre incalculable de fois lorsque j’étais enfant. Depuis quelques années je mens moins : ca ne m’intéresse plus (exemple : mes 7 révélations sont vraies). Effet secondaire : ce manque d’énergie pour le mensonge m’a couté un certain nombre de potes ou même d’amis.
15 juillet 2007
11 juillet 2007
Un essai en anglais
I was convinced sex was useless. Convinced well after I had tried it. I had heard about it, seen it and done it, and it still seemed pretty fucking pointless.
Sex is yet another mean of power. The last solution to get the elite to conform to the rules of the past. The last way of keeping control over anyone between 15 and 55.
Having a brain won't get you anywhere unless you have money, fame or musical talent (yes, rock stars as dumb as fuck still get laid every single night and therefore rule the 21st century much as they did the previous one).
The night is cold as a winter in a ski resort, a morning after 5. Don't blame it on anyone though – global warming has nothing to do with July nights feeling like November. I could have gone as far as to accuse Pete Doherty or countless idiots to chill the night with their empty hearts flushing down what was left of humanity, but it is late and my vodka bottle dried out.
Waving goodbye at a bus full of Japanese women, my friend Jack forgot Maxine, if only for a moment. There it was, in the birth of a bright autumn day in summer: the beginning of what was to be known as the end.
Many clubs resonated with emptiness. A girl next to me might have used the word shallow, but I think this was another illusion. Shiny blond hair teenagers danced in the twilight zone. “Earth to your brain, is anyone home?” I hit on a skull nearby, to make sure something was in it: the wooden noise of the cranial structure reminded me of how stubborn people can get, no matter what hangs (or not) between their legs.
A four-legged flying monster was heading towards our innocent group. It had a nose about half the size of its body, hanging down and then rising up as our skin became closer to it. Mosquito bites are the plague of outdoor clubs. What am I paying my government for? Fighting against terrorism? I think not. I am electing assholes to get rid of those flying blood-suckers. When will you spray some pesticide over the Seine? Incompetents. I remember they use to do it in Belgrade before we erased it from the maps. No one died from lung cancer there, mind you. Anyway, we’re all living in cancer, so we might as well develop one for a good reason. My being comfortable is one. Besides, who knows when the next nuke will strike.
Sex is yet another mean of power. The last solution to get the elite to conform to the rules of the past. The last way of keeping control over anyone between 15 and 55.
Having a brain won't get you anywhere unless you have money, fame or musical talent (yes, rock stars as dumb as fuck still get laid every single night and therefore rule the 21st century much as they did the previous one).
The night is cold as a winter in a ski resort, a morning after 5. Don't blame it on anyone though – global warming has nothing to do with July nights feeling like November. I could have gone as far as to accuse Pete Doherty or countless idiots to chill the night with their empty hearts flushing down what was left of humanity, but it is late and my vodka bottle dried out.
Waving goodbye at a bus full of Japanese women, my friend Jack forgot Maxine, if only for a moment. There it was, in the birth of a bright autumn day in summer: the beginning of what was to be known as the end.
Many clubs resonated with emptiness. A girl next to me might have used the word shallow, but I think this was another illusion. Shiny blond hair teenagers danced in the twilight zone. “Earth to your brain, is anyone home?” I hit on a skull nearby, to make sure something was in it: the wooden noise of the cranial structure reminded me of how stubborn people can get, no matter what hangs (or not) between their legs.
A four-legged flying monster was heading towards our innocent group. It had a nose about half the size of its body, hanging down and then rising up as our skin became closer to it. Mosquito bites are the plague of outdoor clubs. What am I paying my government for? Fighting against terrorism? I think not. I am electing assholes to get rid of those flying blood-suckers. When will you spray some pesticide over the Seine? Incompetents. I remember they use to do it in Belgrade before we erased it from the maps. No one died from lung cancer there, mind you. Anyway, we’re all living in cancer, so we might as well develop one for a good reason. My being comfortable is one. Besides, who knows when the next nuke will strike.
4 juillet 2007
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