SECOND POST.

I just came back from Franprix. I like Franprix. There’s always one around. Though I prefer Esselunga. Esselunga has the best-packed salads, and great bakery stuff, like the pizza tricolore half my diet consist on when I’m in Milan.

I’ve always had trouble understanding French supermarket food. Nothing seems tempting. That might be one of the reasons why I always restrain myself to the few items I know, even when that leads me inexorably into a very deficient diet. It’s seems so logic to buy wine, vodka, beer, bread, cheese and cereal. Of course logic is certainly a very personal thing.

Of course, we can’t leave behind the fact that both cheese and wine come here in a simply offensive amount of variations. This means that even though I know how wine and cheese are supposed to taste like, here in France you never fucking now.

For example, I just bought a syrah that tastes pretty much like vinegar, but according to my flatmates, this is absolutely normal and well expected. The good part is that’s almost impossible for me to ever find wine or cheese that is so disgusting that I can’t even go for it. I’ve had better, I’ve had worse, but I can always get used to it. Not like with this canned soups and packed microwave-designed stews French people seem to be so enthusiastic about. I wouldn’t even try those. That’s simply not food. Is it?

Late 70’s/80’s melodic punk just seems to make so much sense for me right now. I’m kind of like a virgin in that territory. Well, I’ve experimented, of course, but all this bands like Pointed Sticks, Teenage Heads and a couple of names I have barely heard of before, seem so well adjusted to my current state of mind.

I guess repetitive chords and one-dimensional lyrics are exactly what I need. And my recent lack of an MP3 player makes it easier for me to stray away from the music I already know by hard.

I’m making time. I might have some plans for tonight. A few creative ways to spend my dead time in a city I never thought you could ever get bored in.

My roommates are watching some strange French movie about an orange hair Asian girl and a very French-looking guy who just pulled a gun off from his jacket.

I miss my bed, the films Max makes me watch. I think my nostalgic mood became exacerbated after sleeping for three hours on the rug.