“They closed the Sainte-Croix street, there’s a bomb.”
Evidently, when I got back from the bank, the Marais hadn’t exploded yet. I’ve only been there for six months, so I’d rather they waited a bit longer before they blow it up. (On the other hand, living in Paris does tend to build up some misanthropy, so I might be just the one to bomb it, a few years from now.)

“Do you want to be able to withdraw money with the card? The default is to deactivate that, so that you can trust an employee with your card for errands, but if you’re sure you won’t be tempted…”
Little did he warn me that the Business Card was sexy and shiny and silver and would whisper to my ear: “Ooh yeah, use me and abuse me, I’m all yours, let’s go to the Bahamas together and I’ll let you do me in every way you want.” There you go, card, into the drawer, or I’d be inviting everyone and anyone to dinner until I end up in jail.

I think I’m basically back to my regular weight, hurray for walking (I think I am because I don’t use scales, it’s against my religion). Of course, my normal weight is just what allows me to look alright when I’m clothed, but not to roam nightclubs or webcam chatrooms bare-chested (or worse), but (1) that’s not necessarily such a bad thing and (2) in order to get a flat abdomen and defined biceps, diet won’t be enough, it’s either bulimia or the gym.

Ooh, I’d forgotten I had forked over the money for our webservers in May. Yippee, I’m rich. Well, right now I’m more in the red, but virtually, once every expense is reimbursed, I’m rich.

Not sure whether the whole building is trembling every time France scores because of the bar below, or it’s just my next-door neighbors stomping. I mean, why would they be stomping to celebrate a goal?