22 | Apologies

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S i m o n e

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S i m o n e

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Extra TW: Drug usage! if this is triggering for you, skip the last half of the chapter.

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Paris was beautiful if you looked at it through a tunnel vision lens.

If you overlooked the trash and pigeons and rats and bed bugs and the homeless and the constant cigarette smoke in your face and the rude sons of bitches that act like it's an inconvenience to speak English once in a blue moon — as if they didn't go out of their way to learn it nearly fluently.

Even if I asked someone a question in French, they'd respond in English, bitter that I'm an American yet unappreciative that I just made a fucking effort for them.

Fuck that barista, I hope he chokes on the next straw that's shoved up his ass.

Tomorrow I'd go there and order in the thickest New York accent I could muster up, blurring each word together and abbreviating half the sentence, just to piss him off more.

Maybe I'll even ask for a bacon, egg, and cheese croissant and stereotypically blend the sentence into one syllable.

I digress. Paris was nice when you ignored the inhabitants.

Though, I suppose it goes that way for most major cities; or maybe that's just the French and East Coast American ones.

The bitchiness of a French person is no match for the bitchiness of someone who's lived in both Philly and New York City; although Philly was brief and just for my early years of childhood.

I think Philly has more batshit insane people while New York had more questionable unstable ones.

I digress, again.

I certainly didn't pack well, but that was just giving me a reason to prance around the city and spend money that would make my bank wonder if I had moved completely and started from scratch. My outfit was chaotic, and not in the fashionable art student way, in the "did-she-just-get-fucked-in-the-ally-after-leaving-the-club-at-five-AM" way.

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