How do you say "bat shit insane" in French?

All photos in the post are by Nikola Tamindzic. Check him out.  

Last night, I gracefully exited a party with a new ladyfriend. We simultaneously fell down a flight of stairs.

Gathering fallen possessions into our purses, we yelled our respective "Ow!"s and "Holy Mother of Zeus! That hurt more than anal sex with Ron Jeremy!"s.

Then we made out.

It seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time.









Ladyfriend is now saved in my phone as "Stairs" and I have a bruise on my ass that's the size and shape of an awkward turtle.

Oh, and I wasn't particularly drunk last night. I swear on Zeus' nipple.

After hailing Stairs a cab, and dropping by (a.k.a. crashing) a Columbia party, I was once again faced with the conundrum you mortals refer to as "sleep."

Contrary to popular belief, my chronic insomnia is not caused by Neuro-Jew tendencies (that's "Neurotic-Jewish," or "anxiety-prone" for you laymen). At bedtime, my mind is not filled with terror or fear of an unknown future. (That's what my days are for.) Antithetically, it's much like the Brazilian Wax Scenario; My insom-no-matic thoughts are inconsequential. Last night, I was thinking about the irrelevance of Oprah, the physical rise and fall of Marlon Brando (how badly and repeatedly I want to bang him in A Streetcar Named Desire, as compared to the overdose of meatballs he clearly consumed later in life), and why Camus is to blame for my last breakup.

I was also thinking "Shut up, brain. Shut up, brain. Shut up, brain."

After hours of proverbially tossing and turning (really just lying in one place thinking "Shut up, brain"), I went out for a 6 a.m. bagel, wrote some 5 minute poems, and got to thinking about how weird it's going to be to cohabitate with another human for the next week.

That's right. I am actually inviting a real, live human being into my Den of Inequity. And this real, live, human is a Frenchman. A Frenchman that I happen to like, quite a lot.

So, for any of you who parlez-vous Français better than I do, please help me translate these warnings for my attractive visitor:

1. I do bizarre things at 5 a.m., like nom on cookies and sit naked at my desk writing rhyming poems. I'll try to keep my nom-ing noise down to a minimum so as not to wake you.

2. I broadcast my life on the internet, so you should probably pick a pseudonym. Unless you're cool with "Frenchman."

3. On the rare occasion that my insomnia subsides (or I pass out after a romp with Jack Daniels), I've been told that I sing Luda's "Move Bitch (Get Out The Way)" in my sleep. Actually, it would be helpful if you could confirm or deny this rumor.

4. Before I've consumed toxic levels of caffeine, I can't speak English, let alone French.

5. If this is not already blatantly obvious, I'm bat shit insane. I should probably have told you this before you decided to temporarily cohabitate with me. My French sucks. I'm sorry.

Bat-shit-neuroses aside, I'm excited. I love showing people New York almost as much as I love traveling.  Next week with my Frenchman will also be my last drunken hurrah, before I have to buckle down and finish graduate school applications, while simultaneously working and studying that Satanous subject known as "Math" for the GRE's. (Come to think of it, this blog will likely get very boring if I don't continue talking about vaginas every five minutes. Which,of course, I will.)

It's Frenchman's first time in America, so I plan on taking it easy on him. By picking him up at the airport dressed as a slutty Minnie Mouse on New York City's national holiday. Obviously.