One Way Ticket

So here I am sitting down with my insomnia. 2..30 am, watching Shannon Doherty ditching love partners on behalf of mall-singers groupies who thought they could conveniently humiliate their ex AND record application materials for the next "F*** me I'm single" MTV reality show . (Yes, since I have been on the same job for over 3 month, I though I would splurge on long term commitments such as cable TV.) What happened to the quarterly "I'm getting kicked out of the country" emails some of you asked? (sorry for the ones who didn't, maybe I secretly hate you and left you on the list for that exact reason) Well, I've had the same visa since last November. 10 month of administrative stability -a record that outlasted by far any relationship I've had since I moved to this city. Truth is, the level of distress hasn't changed much. TV is as dumb as ever and my attention span has shortened to the point where I cannot read the foreword of a book without hoping the commercial break will be on soon so I can see what's in the fridge.

On a positive note, the roommate who used to parade in sports bra-sponge shorts every time she would sense male pheromones in the hallway (sales rep, boyfriend –mine-, pizzaiolo, kids trick or treating et alii) finally left, leaving me to a sweeter misery and an empty apartment. I know there's something else in life than Work Permits and relationships, but I can't seem to care about fashion that much, so I'm sorry for always going back to the same topics. So, although the "Post Coitum, animal Triste" has been widely covered by Sarah-Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw and by Brigitte Rouan in her "disappointingly mediocre" 1997 feature film (says the Imdb review), claiming the talent of none I will simply ask this: what the hell is wrong with this city??

I am fascinated by how such an impersonal etiquette of love ever became the standard in this town breathing off of diversity. The Sex and the City years might be over for Carrie and friends, total strangers still come up to me in the most random places to complain about their sex life. A 50 something Lebanese male in Whole Foods last week, the 35 year old daughter of the couple who is subletting my friend's apartment this week, my boss, the Air France pilot on our way to Germany 10 days ago –that's another story all together-; even the late night cab driver: "too many girls, you know; too many girls and not enough guys. No good for people. I see bad things and I am ashamed for their families. They ask boys' name in cab, but they already all over them. Disgusting."
If I got it right, you meet Mr. STD –well yeah, you can't just multiply one type of fun- on a clear drunken night. You guys talk, dance, and let's say he's even funny. You see each other often, sometimes for a diner or a movie before going back to his place for the night... Life is good, and Mr. Considerate even offers more and more often to skip the diner-movie-talk-laugh part to directly go back to his place. In a word, you feel connected. One day, after many moving shared memories and half rent checks, he ceremoniously goes down on a knee, tears in his eyes, and pops the question: "my darling, would you like to be exclusive?"

As I sit in my first owned couch watching mind-numbing programs on my new TV and typing this stupid email on a PC I stole at work, I cannot help but wonder: now that I can finally stay, it is time to leave?