Essay: Papillons dans mon estomac.
Translated: Butterflies in my stomach



Ze Butterfly.

They're red in colour and they've been fluttering their flappy wings in my stomach since the sunny July of two OH ten.
Yes dear, that pink flush on my face is because of you.

I wanted to write profound lines about you and me. Like a Wordsworth-meets-lovestruck-Shakespeare epic poem of 200 verses. But, we all know that.. I can't.

So I decided to use the red butterfly metaphor. It's spontaneous, passionately red and unique, mostly like us?
(It's actually just a pretty butterfly but I PRONOUNCE IT all those things. Capiche?)

Mucho lou.
Excuse me for being out straight this time. Maybe this made you smile as well?
Also considering you are my only reader, it's a risk par excellence.

Zig. Zag. Zig. Zag.
Like taking the steering wheel of a car and going absolutely nuts moving it from right to left, left to right - like a little boy with his first plastic toy car.

I've been sitting in my plastic toy car for far too long, methinks.

Tomorrow I will make a detailed list of qualities that I can buy per kilogram. And finally visit the market, bargain a little with the uptight wholesalers who give you the elevator eyes, before they're convinced you're worth a makeover.

Then I will convert it all into a virtual superwoman suit, wear it, feel happy and face the world full frontal.

Until then, I'll circle in my whirlpool of Jamie Cullum, Corrine Ray Bailey and some good Ol' Dave Matthews, hoping to jazz up my spirits.