1/17/01
Combeferre: All right, might I ask what the big deal is with this "Les Mis" musical?! Cilla never ever stops talking about it. I mean, honestly, who would make a musical on a huge, tedious novel?
Cilla: A couple of geniuses! *sigh*
Combeferre: *rolls his eyes* Oh, please...And you say that I feature in this bizarre musical revue?
Cilla: Sure! Well, that is, you appear for a total of about ten minutes, heh...out of three hours, fourteen minutes...
Combeferre: Now that's sad. I think I deserve more coverage than that. How much stage time does Enjolras get?
Cilla: A great deal more than you...and a whole heck of a lot more lines than you. But we all know why that is...
Combeferre: Um...because he's the leader of the barricade?
Cilla: No, silly. Because he's sooooooooo much cuter than you...
Combeferre: *wince* That hurt. Must you go around pointing that out all the time? After all, I may be lacking in looks, but I am considerably saner than both you and Enjolras put together.
Cilla: Tell me something I don't know, dearie. I don't know, I have to say that you would probably fall in love with the musical too, if you saw it.
Combeferre: Huh, you willing to bet on that?
Cilla: *grin* You're on! I'm going to see it in Tampa in a month or so with a friend, and you're coming with me!
Combeferre: *groan* Damn. What have I gotten myself into...? (turns to you) Don't worry, kids, I'll be sure to write up a report on the show for you. Of course, that does mean that I can't sleep through it...
Cilla: *smacks him* Hush your blasphemy. You'll love it. As to whether I can put up with you for the four-and-a-half hour trip to Tampa is another matter entirely...
7/22/01
Combeferre: So. Things are now happening at breakneck pace around here. Cilly-bub was away for two weeks; it was heavenly. Quite relaxing, actually. She left me in charge of the place, but I wasn't authorized to add any updates, so, being the good guy I am, I didn't update. But sadly, she's back now, and, with any luck, she won't find out about the lovely all-night parties we held here in her absence...*crosses fingers hopefully*
Enjolras moved in here too. Seems he got himself kicked out of another apartment. I'd wager that when his landlady tells him to stay out of politics, she means it. Sooooo...I told him he could stay here. And since Cilla wasn't home at the time, heh, heh...Boy will she be surprised to find out that she has another house-guest to deal with...
Ah! Speak of the devil, there's Enjolras yelling at me now. He's in the shower now, screaming something about being scalded to death. I guess I should have shown him how to work the shower, but the damned fool wouldn't let me help him. Said he didn't need any help. Said he could do it himself. *shakes his head and sighs* Well, I'll talk again tomorrow perhaps.
8/9/01
Combeferre: Bonsoir, mes amis. Argh, I am completely and utterly disgusted with American standards, and with the lovely webmistress. It seems today is actually "Let's-Try-To-Correct-All-Of-Combeferre's-Infinitesimal-Flaws Day". Why I was the last to find this out is beyond me.
First, Cilla dragged Enjolras and I off to the dentist's office, saying it had been more than six months since our last check-ups, to which I most patiently responded that, why yes, it had actually been something like one hundred sixty-nine years since our last check-ups, but that that couldn't be helped. Such is a drawback of time-travel. That place, the dentist's office, is a very singular, very frightening place. It has a most disturbing smell, like something vaguely fruity, or maybe minty. And then, when you walk in, all these disgruntled people are waiting there, who've probably been waiting there for about four or five hours, who grudgingly make room for you. Then, the hygenist ushers you in. When Enjolras went in today, he had this stoic expression plastered all over his face, that look he gets when he knows that what he's undertaking is suicide, but that he's going to face it with courage and dignity regardless. He gave me one last parting glance over his shoulder, and I could have sworn I saw fear flash in his eyes once, then the door slammed behind him. And he was in the lion's den. When he came back out, about forty-five minutes later, he looked quite flustered, and he kept moving his jaw around painfully. That was in no way reassuring, nor was the fact that he refused to relate the details of his torture. Then it was my turn.
Even now, I cannot really recall much. It is all one big blur of lights being shined straight into my eyes, sharp instruments being stabbed into my gums, cotton balls being stuffed into my mouth, a thousand fearsome sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and feelings--it was enough to make a grown man cry. But I bore it stoically, as I knew Enjolras before me had done. Finally they released me, and I stumbled back into the waiting room, practically numb. We waited in silence, Enjolras and I, for Cilla to come back out. I admit I was nervous; as annoyed as I can get with Cilla, I really didn't want to see her crying. But, wonder of wonders, she was smiling when she came out. Smiling! Imagine! She grinned at me, and informed me that she was cavity-free once more, and luckily, so were Enjolras and I. I really didn't care to know what sort of torture they may have put us through if we had had cavities. I shudder to think...
After that, we made a quick stop at the optometrist's, to pick up the new prescription glasses Cilla had ordered for me. I am quite blind without my glasses, I admit. I now have trifocals, which I am still adjusting to, as everyone who wears trifocals will know that in the beginning, they sometimes take a bit of getting used to. So we waited, and waited, and waited some more, and finally they gave us what we'd come for. I hate the optometrist's. Another place where they shine lights into your eyes. So I was somewhat relieved when we moved on to our next stop...
...Which happened to be clothes shopping. *shudder* If there is one thing I cannot stand, besides the dentist's office, it is clothes shopping with Cillabub. Cilla and Enjolras. *deep shudder* So, Cilla dragged us out to Old Navy, believe it or not, saying that Enjolras and I were a bit behind the times in fashion, which is perhaps the understatement of the year. That experience was interesting. Particularly when Cilla would ask Enjolras what he thought of some random article of clothing. He makes the most horrid grimaces sometimes, I swear. One day his face will stick like that. And if he wasn't making a face at what she showed him, he was blushing like a virgin (like a virgin? Hmmm...) at the impropriety of the clothing's style. And so, after we had repeated that process about twenty billion times, she finally got tired of looking at women's clothes, and decided to help us spruce up our wardrobes. Oh, goody.
So, we headed over to the men's side. Cilla is completely convinced that Enjolras and I are "preppies", whatever that means. So we were forced to have to peruse every article of clothing on the men's side, looking for something that we could all agree on. So, if you can guess how often that happened. I was looking for something in a nice shade of mauve, or maybe a pretty lavender. Or a new waistcoat (which they seemed to not stock. Hmmm...). Enjolras seemed to be interested in the red shirts, but Cilla took one look at the price tag and practically had heart failure. So much for that. As for my choices, she took one look at those and burst out laughing. She just muttered something about fairies, and I really have no idea what she was referring to. I saw no correlation between the shirts I'd selected and winged woodland sprites, but we all know Cilla lives off in her own world anyway, so I'll just assume that the misunderstanding was on her end. Anyway, the long and short of it is, she wouldn't let me get the shirts I'd wanted. One might well ask, why I am forced to go shopping if I am not permitted to select clothes to buy. So there was, in short, very little accomplished on that shopping trip. You know what that means; we'll have to go back before long. *shudder*
Anyway, that was the Holy Trinity of Torture that I had to endure today. And all for the sake of being "hygenic" and "stylish". Good God, I feel so debased. I have officially sunk to the level of twenty-first century Americans. *shudder* And I think Enjolras is traumatized. He won't talk to me, so perhaps I had better go talk to him. Au revoir for now, mes amis.
8/11/01
Combeferre: Another exciting day in the insane scheme of things. Enjolras has developed a irrational obsession with computer pinball, so I had fight tooth and nail just to get on the computer to type this. *sigh* There's no milk in the fridge, the cat is barfing her guts on Cilla's favorite chair, and it's thundering outside, which means I'll probably get electrocuted while typing this. Ahh, just a typical day in this house.
I just saw a movie entitled Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail. I am now disturbed. After all, does anyone else fail to see what is frightening about a bunny rabbit? I liked the parts with cows on catapults. I've always said that the thickest Frenchman still retains ten times the intelligence of the average Englishman. Or American, for that matter. Trojan Rabbit, indeed. *snorts* Anyway, it was a rather warped movie, and Enjolras got the Camelot song stuck in his head for a solid two days. That was torturous for the rest of us.
Cilla forced us to sit down and listen to a song called "Lady Marmalade" yesterday. I think that's what finally got that Monty Python song out of Enjolras's head...Now he's been going around singing, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?" over and over. He even sang the song in falsetto with Cilla this afternoon, at her urging, and they acted it out. Enjolras as a street-walker, imagine that. Actually, he wasn't half bad at it, the strutting and eyelash-batting and such. It was highly amusing, and would be even more so if he knew that Cilla owns a video camera, and that I have taught myself to use it. I haven't yet decided whether to use the tape as blackmail to get him to stop singing that song, or to just sell it and make a fortune. Mmm, decisions, decisions.
Ah, well. Besides these curious episodes, few things are really happening over here. Cilla's ignoring me at the moment; she is convinced that I drank the last of the milk without going to get more. That wasn't me. Honestly, Enjolras is a more suspicious subject than I; he's the one who was caught drinking orange juice out of the carton the other day. But nevertheless...I should not preoccupy myself with so many trivial details. Enjolras is my dearest friend, despite the fact that he's hitting me over the head with a pillow at the moment. He apparently wants to go back to playing that pinball game, which I am firmly convinced rots his brain cells. All right, Marcelin, all right. You must excuse me, mes amis, while I go beat some respect into that adolescent. Au revoir.
9/12/01
Holy Mother of God.
Yesterday was the Day of Judgment...dies irae...O God, O God...
I suppose I would never have known if Enjolras had not decided to watch some old "Wheel of Fortune" reruns that were supposed to be on. How could he have known that that harmlessly cheesy game show would be replaced by something infinitely more abominable, infinitely more black, more evil? He couldn't have imagined it, he wouldn't have believed it if someone had told him a week ago that a day like yesterday would come...And yet, he was the one who noiselessly pushed open the door to my bedroom, and poked his head around the corner.
"'Ferre?"
"Hmmm?"
"What's the World Trade Center?"
"The Twin Towers? It's an enormous pair of buildings in New York City." A pause, then: "Why do you ask?"
"Because it's got a vast hole in it..."
Thus began a tragedy the likes of which I have never, ever experienced. God, all those people...
First came the shock. Then, the questions: How in God's Name could this happen? What twisted bastard would, could do something like this? What would be next? Then, came the fear. In our case, the irrational fear, because God knows no self-respecting terrorist would select a small town in Florida as his devastating target...Yet still, there was fear. Then, when that wore away, came the anger...the righteous fury. Enjolras and I sat in front of the television and wept in frustration, watching the same infuriating footage over and over. The plane, the crash, the flames...what more was there to see? And then, when it could not get worse, it did. The sight of those buildings imploding onto themselves was perhaps the worst thing I have ever seen, the most horrifying, and I have seen a rather many horrifying things in my short lifetime. I can never, never erase from my mind the footage of a man leaping from a high window of one of the buildings to fall many stories to his death...How does one forget something like that? How does one move on with ordinary life after a monstrous event like this? Enjolras says that to forget would be, in a way, a betrayal to those whose lives were sacrificed that day. We can never go back to before...innocence has forever melted into experience, and life has no rewind button, as Cilla says.
How has mankind reached this low? Is this the dream you had for the world, Enjolras? Your words continue to echo around in my head: "Citizens, the nineteenth century is grand, but the twentieth century will be happy." And what of the twenty-first century, eh? What shall we do? What can we do? Is it even possible for mankind to claw its way back out of this pit it has dug itself deeper and deeper into since the beginning of time?
And life continues as normal. I feel sick. Enjolras and I went to give blood. Cilla is too young to do so, so we went while she was at school...What can we do as individuals? I prayed last night...It was the first time I had prayed since I was thirteen years old.
Kyrie Eleison...Amen.
11/11/01
As I write, mes amis, I wonder why it is that mankind seems to repeat its mistakes over and over. I have just finished watching a movie that Cilla taped from TV, called "Uprising". It concerned itself with the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising during the Second World War. The loss of life was shocking to me, and I couldn't help but wonder why these unfortunate people did not take into account all the events of failed insurrections prior to 1943. Of course, at this jucture, you consider me a hypocrite, perhaps. And my reply to that is that I was well aware of the low success rate of revolutions before I made the choice to join Enjolras in his fight. However, I digress. My purpose in writing this entry is not to defend my reasons for making the past decisions that I made.
The movie was excellent, and rather sad, as most good movies tend to be. It was a bit strange to me, though, as I could not help but see shadows of people I used to know in every character. For example, I looked at one of the rebel leaders, Kazik, and saw only a reflection of Courfeyrac...in their leader, a twenty-four-year-old named Mordechai, I saw Enjolras. That was an inescapable parallel. Enjolras himself was impressed with the movie, but I believe he disapproved of my tears when several of the main characters sacrificed their lives fighting for liberty. I can make no excuse for my emotion, except that I heard, in every scream, Jehan's cry as he was murdered, and saw, in every death, Feuilly's skull shattered against the outer wall of Corinthe, not two feet from where he had inscribed "Vivent les peuples" the night before. And I shudder now to relive those remembrances. I've never told Enjolras of these memories that I keep safely locked away in my heart. I must keep them this way; I must recall every detail of that great conflict. Lest I forget.
I digress once again. It's absurd; my life has been filled as of late with details of war. Cilla tells Enjolras and I that today is Veterans' Day, created to honor the many people who have given everything inside themselves to protect those things which M. Jefferson calls "inalienable": life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. When she told us that we were veterans, Enjolras asked rather brusquely if she did not, then, consider those National and Municipal Guards veterans as well. To which our esteemed companion replied that yes, they also thought themselves to be fighting for freedom and order, and thus they were no less deserving of honor than we were. Enjolras, as it was natural that he should be, was deeply angered. However, as much as I can understand my friend's rage, as I was there too, I must agree with Cillabub. If one chooses to look through the prism from a different angle, one will invariably see a different color. For those who are metaphor-impaired, I mean that one only needs to look from the viewpoint of those National Guards to see that they believed themselves to be fighting for France, just as we did. And I admire that, in spite of myself.
It upsets me, of course, that Enjolras is furious, and that I probably will see nothing of him for the next thirty-six hours or so. I only fear that he will hurt himself by exhausting himself and refusing to eat or drink. He is just as angry with me as he is with Cilla, for the sole reason that I am not in complete agreement with him on this matter. He called me a traitor to my country, and, worse still, to the memory of my friends. This, of course, is the furthest thing from the truth, but what could I say? I shall never forget them...
"Lest we forget" --Veterans' Day, 2001
12/23/01
Whew. It's been something of a day today. I just love all this last-minute Christmas hustle. Note the sarcasm.
Today, Cilla forced Enjolras and I to decorate Christmas cookies. I swear, he was eating more than he was decorating, and I was stuck picking up the slack. And when cookies began disappearing, I was the one who always got my knuckles slapped by Cilla's wooden spoon. Hmph. The things I do for his sake. Personally, I liked the Gingerbreadman-shaped cookie that I decorated to look like Rousseau. It was simply precious. At least, it was, until Cilla got malicious and bit its head off. Oh well. I also liked Enjolras's Gingerbreadman cookie, decorated with a cruel-looking face, that bore the label, 'Cilla the Dictator' on its stomach. And when I laughed at it, I got my knuckles rapped again, Enjolras got smacked upside the head, and the cookie was promptly eaten by the Dictator herself.
Then, Enjolras and I had to go last-minute shopping with her. Actually, it might be more accurate to say that we were dragged kicking and screaming to the mall, to go last-minute shopping. Argh. Next time she tells me we're going shopping, I'll just tell her that I'm sorry, but I already made a date with Attila the Hun to have my fingernails pulled off one by one. Yes, it is that bad, mes amis. Thank all the gods in Heaven that she didn't find it necessary to drag me into the candle store this time. I suppose she learned her lesson after last time she did that--I sneezed so hard, I caused damage equal to about three months of her allowance. I ask you, can I help it that I'm terribly allergic to overly-flowery smells? This was a stink that could have killed the flower that created it. Brrr. It was horrid.
But anyway. We went shopping, and Enjolras and I argued over whether or not we should get Cilla a gift. I came up with the idea, and he was opposed to it. Finally, we used the most fair, most impartial, most perfect way to decide it--we flipped a coin. A centime, to be exact, that had probably been in Enjolras's pocket since the nineteenth century. Well, it ended up rolling into a tight spot, and we were unable to retrieve it and get our results, so we just called a stalemate and decided not to get her anything, for the moment. Besides, if we change our minds, we still have another day or so to get it...
I wanted to see the movie The Lord of the Rings, but Cilla said we had to wait for a while, until Christmastide had come and gone, so that we could have some free time. Grrr. I admit though, it would be rather creepy to see a movie with three-foot-tall creatures that closely resemble you. After all, Cilla is convinced that Frodo the Hobbit was actually a distant relative of mine, we look so alike. Hmph. If she makes another crack about my height...I'm five-foot-seven, for crying out loud! Isn't that tall enough for a man?!
I am rambling now. Oh well. It is impossible for me to write on this page and not ramble. Enjolras says that my tangents make me a better pamphlet writer. I believe him, but only because my ego needs that little boost. I think I shall go see what he is doing now, and see if I might join him. He is a pleasant fellow, when he chooses to be, and I have begun to think of him as a brother, even more than I had before. Do not get me wrong; we have our arguments and our misunderstandings, just as any two people do. I just think that somehow, we have something that is indestructible. Not fire, nor rain, nor barricades, nor a century and a half of time travel can tear us apart, and I'll tell you something: that is a wonderful feeling. That is what people live for, with the hopes that someday, they will experience that feeling. It is even more important for me to remember that, at this time of year. I think I will go hug my friend now. I suggest you do the same for someone you love this holiday season. Joyeux Noël, Happy Hannukah, and God bless you all.
8/9/02
Well, I finally watched Lord of the Rings...and now, for pity's sake, I'd like to stop watching Lord of the Rings for two seconds! The webmistress is an obsessive fruitcake (a note on the word 'fruitcake'--I have just recently been taught this word by Enjolras, who heard it from one of Cilla's friends. 'Tis an exceedingly useful term.) I have presently lost count of how many times we have watched that bedamned movie since she rented it on Tuesday. All right, it was quite fascinating the first couple of times we saw it, particularly when Cilla explained to us that the story was an allegory, and in spite of the fact that she insisted on bawling like a baby every time Boromir died, it was enjoyable. However, let me say this now--if that Orc fellow hadn't gotten to him first, I would kill Boromir myself if I thought it would make Cilla stop watching the same movie over and over. As for Enjolras, he only watched it the first time because she and I practically tied him down between us. He has little respect for the fantasy genre. Either that, or he simply didn't relish listening to Cilla coo over the "hot" Legolas, Aragorn, and hobbits for a full three hours. I cannot say I truly blame him if the latter was the case. If I hear one more thing about how "cuuuuuuuuuute" that Elf is, or for that matter, about how Frodo and Sam "make such an adorable couple," I think I am going to agree to Enjolras's suggestion that we arrange a meeting between the DVD player and the nearest dumpster. *sigh* At least she goes back to school next week...just keep telling yourself that, 'Ferre...
That said, I suppose it's been a rather average day. We woke up and found that Cilla was momentarily out of house, which only means that we weren't awakened to the melodious sound of Orcs snarling, for which we were rather grateful. Enjolras rummaged through the cupboard, only to find that we were out of Pop Tarts, then proceeded to whine about it until I threw a couch pillow at him. This, naturally, led to a full-scale war using pillows, and I fear that a lamp or two may have perhaps gotten a bit "scuffed" in the process. Hopefully, Cilla will never look under the living room chairs; after all, my companion and I are beginning to lack for places to sweep the remnants of our epic battles.
Hmmm, what else can I rant about this morning? Perhaps you'd like to hear the sordid tale of Enjolras and the summer camp children...? You would? Excellent; that's a classic.
It all began earlier this summer when Cilla was working volunteer hours at the theatre arts summer camp that she has apparently been a part of for five years now. One day, she said to Enjolras and I that she wanted to bring us to camp for the day (perhaps this was owing to the fact that we had broken the toaster-oven the day before while she was out of the house, and she didn't want a repeat of that tragedy). So, foolishly, we agreed. So, we got there, and the children, who had the appearance of little cherubs in camp T-shirts, got a running start and launched themselves from across the room at Enjolras. And this was only the beginning of a rather amusing day (to describe it as amusing is to assume, naturally, that you aren't Enjolras). It got even better when we had to climb the three flights of stairs up to the theatre (which is on the top floor of the building) for rehearsals. Enjolras made the climb with children hanging on him like monkeys, and a terribly foul expression on his face.
Things continued in this vein for most of the day. Around noon, Cilla and I were in the costume room on the third floor, sorting through the clothing and generally laughing at some of the more hideous pieces (most of the costumes have been donated over the years to the school where the camp is held). Then, all of a sudden, Enjolras burst in, slammed the door behind himself, and stood there, leaning against it and panting. He went on to relate the tale of how the children (little children, mes amis, remember this!) pursued him all over the third floor, until he finally managed to escape and duck in here. It was truly sad to hear of a grown man running from small children. At the end of the day, they cried when he left. He grumbled under his breath the entire way home, and swore on everything he held sacred that he would never go again. I don't know why; I thought they were positively adorable, myself.
Oh dear. Cillabub's home. I suppose I'll have to resign myself to another showing of Lord of the Rings...wish me luck. I hope you have a more productive afternoon, mes amis. Au revoir.
5/9/03
Forget the National Guard, and even the Municipal Guard. The new enemy has reared its ugly head: l’Organisation du Baccalauréat International, known mundanely as the International Baccalaureate Organization, or, in the spirit of the twenty-first century, which seems to condone shortening everything (including my name), the IBO. If you will indulge me for a moment, this group's diploma programme can be summed up with one word: bobo* [*Footnote: This appears to be a slang word popular in Cilla's school, translating approximately to its likely derivative, "bogus". Ironically, it is a word used and understood by only those students that are part of the International Baccalaureate programme.] For example, on its website, it is described as "a demanding pre-university course of study that leads to examinations. It is designed for highly motivated secondary school students aged 16 to 19." This age group, naturally, doesn't include "highly motivated" twentysomething dead French medical students. Which may well lead one to ask why it is, then, that I seem to be doing all of Cilla's schoolwork for said nervous-breakdown-inducing programme.
Of course, I don't mind helping out with the workload; it isn't that at all. That is, in spite of everything, learning is by far my favorite pasttime. But this programme, this bobo programme, makes me feel more and more inadequate and insecure with each passing day. That all started when Cilla enrolled in IB Biology. Allow me to re-enact the scene when I gave her the homework I had completed for her.
Cilla: Do you have that assignment for me, 'Ferre?
Me: I may say that it positively befuddled me, but I did my best.
Cilla: You're such a doll, 'Ferre.
Me: I know.
Cilla: Let's have a look at this. *skims my answers* What is this? This is on medicine, 'Ferre, not on the occult. *peers at one particular answer, and shakes her head* Did you even read what you were writing?!
Me: *defensively* What? I did my best!
Cilla: You were a medical student, 'Ferre! Here, one question was, "Name one condition associated with the human transport system, including a treatment used for the disorder." Your response was *clears her throat and quotes in a snooty French accent*: "As we know from the ancient Egyptians, bad humours occasionally creep into and spoil the blood, causing such symptoms as nausea, fever, and wildness. There is, however, a simple treatment for this: bloodletting, or leeching, depending on the preference or discretion of the attending physician." 'Ferre, they wouldn't even give you one mark for that!
Me: Why not? Surely you don't question the validity of the response?
Cilla: *wildly* Validity?! What validity? It's about time you left the stone age, Etienne. Read this. *throws the twenty-five-pound Biology textbook on my lap*
Me: Oof!
And that was basically the end of the conversation. Of course, I finished reading the textbook within half a week, but I have seen little biology work coming my way since then. I don't think she trusts me with it.
But the IB and Advanced Placement exams have been and will be going on all month, so I'm stuck in Hell. Helping Cilla study is low on my list of things I'd like to get done before I die. Oh wait...I'm already dead. *shrugs* She's also been neglecting me and the website for the sake of said exams, so I don't feel particularly inclined to do her any favours. Especially since she's working on a Joly drawing, and I admit that I like it, and I'm a bit jealous that it's not of me. ;-)
On other fronts, Enjolras has been lying low for the past month or two, staying out of Cilla's way. He's brighter than I had previously given him credit for, as he has managed to avoid getting roped into helping with Cilla's studies. Maybe that's because she's not studying government or politics. But at any rate, Enjolras has been closed up in his room for a while. And worse still, Cilla's been beginning to scheme at some way to introduce him to some girls, in some convoluted attempt at matchmaking. I don't know quite how that makes me feel, but I do know that I don't like it...I shouldn't worry; he'll never go along with it. Unfortunately, that's not what worries me...
Well, I've talked until I've reached a topic I cannot or will not talk about, an impasse of sorts, which is an appropriate ending place for a journal entry. So, farewell, mes amis, until summer (when the hellish exams have ended).
Go back to the Twilight Zone...