Can Drinking Alcohol Delay Your Period

50. Single track (1)

The north calls me, without my knowing why. It's been some time now that I'm more thoughtful decisions. I'm heading towards the bombs simply in search of the battlefield where important things happen.

The sword and scared, I advance inexorably towards the Seine in search of a meaning to my actions. Nothing of what I experienced so far has managed to get on track or even on any route.

I'm an unemployed person who Fuck you. I am a voter who never vote for whoever gets elected. I take credit over thirty years, and hopefully a better world without erecting barricades. The army of losers is made up of infantry and clumsy unconvinced. Finally

shit, when do we get there? I am no more anxious than another, but it starts to do well. It should perhaps be doing something with our lives.

smoke invaded the town, and I hide the sky. The fires around me do not produce more than darkness, because everything has already burned. I tell myself that if I reach the Seine I see a little clearer.

I went up the Boulevard, ignoring the protests of the buildings, and sections of walls collapsing. I'm not back for sightseeing. I have a son of a bitch down, and I'll come through even if it's the only thing that I have accomplished in my life.

My fault?

The city trembles as after a long winter. The smoke is suffocating, and I am relying on the sidewalk as I go along to take me to better days. I put my sword in its sheath, for not having air which darkens the bastard swords, without thinking.

Maybe this is the moment when I am concerned about how I do things rather than why I do, I am more writer than I've ever been. Or maybe not.

I finally opens on the Seine, and get a view a little clearer. Planes crisscross the altitude as harpies, too high for us not hear them. They drop here and there fireworks n'émerveillent that person. A helicopter regiment arrived from the west, along the river and the smoke dissipates.

They seem to rule out the low clouds that dot the roofs of buildings, and come spit on the Pont Royal hordes of soldiers. Lianas gush of gear, along which men let slip. No sooner did they touched the ground that everyone will have to ask the kinds of small transistors across the bridge.

then abandoned by the angels of steel that would have returned from wherever they came, the little party deserted the deck in a hurry, taking refuge on the other side of the shore. I perceive a silhouette vaguely in the distance which displays a small suitcase, and presses a button so big that I can be distinguished despite the distance.

I whisper "No" stifled. The Pont Royal

explodes from side to side, throwing debris stone so high in the sky they seem to stay suspended. Then a shower of stone falls into the Seine, and a bit on the side too. Columns of water rise to collapse immediately.

Soldiers have already returned to the Jardin des Tuileries. I start running along the platform, to join the footpath a few hundred yards away. Frankly, if we are not stupid, given the number of bridges that are in Paris, to make a single jump.

I begin to hear gunfire from the other side. I rush on the bridge at full speed, his hand on the hilt of the sword, thinking like a moron that's my time.

In the Tuileries the battle rages. Most of the revolutionaries who face the army hooded or masked because of the smoke surrounding. Molotov cocktails meet military grenades, and they measure their shotguns to machine guns.

I do not care who wins the battle. Me sneaking behind a hedge, I scan the field of vision, looking for Irving Rutherford. I seek to slay the dragon that will make me a true knight.

Neither side is gaining ground. This battle is nothing mythical or grandiose. It is as old as the world, and will continue even millennia. It's never field that wars are played.

Sancho I see that loads at the head of a column. His followers shouting man with a frightening confidence, and swell the ranks of the guerrillas of fortune. The soldiers are given a grim and cede casually a few inches of ground. It does not take over for the final battle looks for undisciplined.

I leave my hiding place, and unsheathed my sword. I cut the smoke to go out to meet the brother of Irving Rutherford. I push people out of my way, reluctant to give their swords, but preferring to reserve it for Sancho.

When I come up to him, without me noticed, I wield my blade was about to shoot him on his head. A burst of ball comes to mow the abdomen before I had time to hit, and he falls without a sound.

The air is too opaque, and the situation too crazy for his compatriot does have noticed. I kneel beside him, and it sticks great slap to make him focus on me rather than the rivers of blood that escape him.

"What do you do there, Irving? wonder does it with a disapproving smile.

"I'm not Irving. Where is he?

Irving is Irving. It is like this. You're the writer missed? You like him.

"It is he who looks like me.

Where is Irving?

"That's what I want to know.

He raises a gun to my face, but if his hand is trembling, and his arms so soft, I'm missing twenty centimeters good when pulled. The noise of the detonation deafens me a few moments, and Sancho took the opportunity to tell me where lies Irving Rutherford.

Recently, the writer warrior can read lips, but I do not really believe what I read. I understand I forget as an insult, fast, and a place: La Maison de la Radio. When I ask why the revolutionary Irving does not charge alongside his troops, he has a look of disgust.

"It is an underling, he informs me. He did what I asked.

-The history will remember his name. I know for sure.

-I 'm the head, dying there.

-

anymore.

I see his eyes covered with a veil colorless and yet charged with a profusion of images. I try to convince me that if I messed up his last moments, he deserved it. The sounds of gunfire are suddenly more scarce, and the army seems to rout the rebels face. Yet another martyr of the revolution my balls.

I get up to get a better perspective. I then noticed that the military are not the only ones to flee. The revolutionaries, I had taken for their pursuers, are also scared and anxious to escape from the Tuileries.

I turned with apprehension, and see take shape in the mist of fighting the silhouette of a giant reptile that glides silently on the floor yet. His tongue hisses like a knife being sharpened. Worse than the anaconda ten meters I've seen in a horror movie: Snake World. "I'm

Jörmungand! he yells. I eat you!

I have other things to do than to listen bullshit. I'm not even sure it really is happening. Taking my momentum, I rush headlong upon him, the tip of my sword scraping the ground.

He pushes a whistling sound that almost makes me let go. In a sudden ripple, it projects its fangs toward me, ready to close. But I did not come all this way to make me eat like a field mouse.

I report my sword suddenly, without ceasing to run. I rushed to open his mouth and planted my blade. The sword begins to glow and smoke in contact with the giant snake, writhing in pain. My weapon is the magic sound of a pressure cooker forgotten on the heat and cover the screams of the reptile.

Finally, the sword explodes and his head. A huge squirt of spray smelly and greenish m'asperge whole. The decapitated body of Jörmungand collapses, inert.

And obviously, nobody saw that. I

nine paces before collapsing. I curl up on myself, steeped in anguish and regret, and quite incredulous. I feel like I can not compress to exist. To stay there and not to insist, as I always do.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I reject the first, then a familiar voice forces me to look up:

-You need my help.

Xavier is standing beside me. It is encased in a conducting cosmonaut, and hope for a moment he came to tell me impersonating death to go conduct a secret mission in space.

But it is not, and I even feel that I'm going to start complaining. My friend tells me died with the utmost seriousness that comes from the future, a future where I became a great writer, and he came to help me get rid of Irving Rutherford.

I burst into tears literally. I curl up again, flowing torrents of tears raging against myself and against the bloody future that moves away, gets closer, making round trips, and I file the shower.

Xavier watching me carefully, and politely asks me why I cry. I answered the quavering voice that reminds me of someone, before I return to my sobs.

Sadness grips me who has no background, it's a free fall without a parachute, which takes hours, years. I cry like never before, and I never cry like that. I'm miserable as can be someone with real problems.

Party 1

Why Would My Legs Ache For 3 Hours

49. Martine at the wrong time

"Then you have not read my manuscript?

-No.

I realize suddenly realize that Martin must think me an asshole, talk to me in such a moment. But as I am one of my main interests, I did not realize.

She puts her hair up with discomfort, and crosses her arms over her chest, looking at the ground between us. And I still do not know how to approach the problem.

Around us people are screaming about the soldiers lined up in a compact, hand the trigger of their guns, which block the boulevard. A few miles away, bombs shred the Haussmann buildings, but does not seem to worry anyone. You get used to everything.

I ask Martin why she wants to go home, expecting what she responds simply, "Because it's my home, asshole." But she told me she finally changed my mind. I look at Vincent, sitting on a sidewalk a few yards away, and asked him telepathically if Martine is real. The mustache does not understand what I'm saying, and I am sign me Sort this out myself.

Everything is always about timing. If I had arrived earlier, I could return to the capital before the evacuation, and if it had been before the girl of my dreams would I read the letters slipped under his door to tell him how point was stupid to be separated.

I think back to that copy of my manuscript that I have also slipped, and suddenly regretted more than any of them have left. I should fuck me but a little voice whispers that I am able to write better, and that this novel will leave a poor reflection on me. And god knows I like to talk well of me.

-I can not do better, I say.

Martine looks up in surprise. She probe a few moments, and places his hand on my beard. I want to escape by running, or to reduce me to ashes. I would like to say a bunch of stuff, do a bunch of stuff, but the truth is that I still stand there like an acorn, and that my inertia is such that I will not move as nothing will shake me .

"I'll go," she tells me.

"I think I'll stay here. I have no choice.

-You 're the ones who can always do better.

When she said that I feel even smaller than usual. The city and I shudder in unison. My shoulders were a blip, and buildings tremble on their foundations. Some crumble. The moment passes like a dream, like a small earthquake that is perceptible with seismographs. A building closer than the other breaks her mouth, and a kind of breath caressed our bodies, and makes the hair fluttering Martine.

The timing is bad, always. I'll stay here and watch the bombs fall, waiting to be buried, crying like a child. I cry so hard that we should treat me then. Martine then come visit me, and I shall die in his arms. And it will be enough, because in any way I can not do better.

I take her in my arms, and she emerges, explaining that this is not a good idea. I know very well what she is doing: She is leaving me, again. In a few minutes I'm all alone and I will have more strength.

She passes her hand over my face, as she always does, and I want to tear his arm. I point out how our relationship has been a long evolution towards Platonism, and she asks me blankly why I always lock the important moments.

"I am ...

In saying this, I seek the answer in my head, without success. I look at her face to burn in my memory even though I know very well that the time will erase.

The soil crumbles beneath me, is pulverized and dispersed with the wind. I step aside, then two, but wherever I set foot in the bitumen from the ashes.

I return to province, "said Martine. I'll be back when it is subdued.

-I 'm afraid it will not calm down.

-Be not afraid.

I can endure more commonplace. It is like two cons to look in the eye, spouting niceties, so we keep the most important to us.

-I really afraid it will not calm down.

She smiled and advised me to keep the beard because it suits me well. She kissed me one last time, more to make peace with me from envy. She turns back and walks away to get lost in the crowd of refugees.

buildings do not end up shattered. The sound of bombs getting closer, and the military to argue us back. The ground continues to dissolve under my feet, and when I'll sit on a bench, he quietly ablaze, consumed by small green flames.

Vincent comes to join me, wearing her two large sports bags. He explained it will follow me no farther, and gives me a billion reasons are all legitimate. I do not even listen because deep down I know why he did not accompany me.

I wonder if I'll really go to plan B, so that nothing compels me. I replied that I only just beginning to understand why I do all that, and this time I have to go after things.

He sighs, and opens one of his bags. It leaves many treasures from his collection, like a suit and a razor. I thanked him politely, and we walk up public toilets that were spared the looting. During

the mustache stands watch, I shave my beard, no foam, and cut myself several times. Then I put on a shirt, and m'escrime minutes to tie a bow tie, while Vincent's banging at the door to get me to hurry. He told me that the military still progressing, and the refugees begin to flee too.

I spend pants, a jacket, and observes my image in the mirror. For the first time, I do not recognize Irving Rutherford. I do not recognize myself either. I see before me a strange person and determined that a reassuring smile. The person I am today.

When I go out, Vincent also noticed. We're in the arms we dare not touch, like two strangers. He tells me he has one last gift for me.

He leaves his bag a gleaming sword, the pommel inlaid with precious stones. He hands it to me, and by entering I am surprised to find it too lightly. I give a few blows with the wind cons and see how much she is handy. I passed my finger over the edge, and drops of blood beading line perfectly drawn that appeared on my skin.

Vincent looks down shamefully when I asked about the provenance of the object. He mumbles something that I do not understand, and growls when I ask him to repeat.

... "She starts there. It was forged in secret in the sacred mountain of Helgafell by dwarves.

-Really?

-It is made of an alloy that is lightweight and indestructible. Nothing can break. And I think that the jewels on the hilt are sacred stones. I can not do better.

He swallowed painfully, as if about to vomit. I know how much it was hard for him to utter these words. His pragmatism has taken quite a blow, and I'm afraid he wants for it. But we share

a cordial handshake, without rancor or regret. It gives me a sleeve for my new sword, and wishes me good luck with an air sincere.

I find nothing to say deep, "he apologizes.

"It's okay.

-fuck.

I glue a small slap on the cheek, and a second attempt that I ducked. He turns and takes its own course. I begin to hope to see him again someday.

I put my sword in my scabbard, and turn around to admire Paris. It is as if the city had a thousand years old today. Everything is crumbling around me because I am unable to beautify the world around me.

I'm going to meet the military column, which continues to push the people. I came across a young soldier, pointing his gun at me, ordering me to turn back.

"You know who I am? "I said.

I stared a few seconds, and his eyebrows move back and forth on his forehead. He finally let me pass, and I do not know if it's because he believes recognized me, or because he was afraid to look like a fool by asking a supervisor.

The streets are clear as ever. We see that the tanks have already moved to traces of caterpillars on the ground and the crushed cars. Smoke from burning buildings is complete shadows on the ground and hides the sun.

I tell myself it's just a bad time to pass.

Note: Making any less sentimental

Soon: Single track (1)

Indians Between 1800 And 1812

48. Vincent dramatizes

Push your wheelbarrow asshole. Put one foot before the other, not cumbered and not thinking about you or your place in the world. The road is still long until Ragnar four kingdoms, and even more to Valhalla.

I tell anything. Each day will be gold, but for now every day I am a little frosty. I'm barely aware of what I do.

Irving Rutherford is telling me eat, I know. Even at a distance, it drains my life force, and with my reason. I am less and less consistent in the stories I tell. Occasionally, a flash of lucidity makes me say that I imagined the death of Xavier, because psychology magazines never killed anyone.

-You who had already struggled to make you to death Roger, sympathizes Vincent.

-Roger is not dead, "I said, irritated. He returned in time, I've already said.

Vincent shakes his head wearily, and I see tears despite pointing to the corners of his eyes when he put them on me. He turns his head to avoid having to contemplate longer the show I left off.

I cast off long ago. I waited just a flurry takes me away.

shoot your barrow your barrow pushing, pushing your wheelbarrow. The Road to Valhalla is short, and after waiting fame, women, and alcohol drinking craft in the skull of your enemy. Irving Rutherford will burst open mouth and you can shit in it.

Suddenly, a pulsating heart in me to stop walking. My vision is troubled by flies obscure, and I feel assaulted by the rain tumbles and the certainty that I will never be a better man.

Vincent catches me by the shoulders to keep from falling. He wondered aloud how he came to escort the bearer of the ring. I am sitting on the roadside in the grass wet and cold. A drizzle

continual attacks us since we abandoned the car, which fell short of gasoline. It is insidious and persistent, and seeks to prove to us that summer is well and truly over.

To make matters worse, Vincent passed on me the heaviest bag. When I proposed to leave our belongings in the car, he said nothing, but I stuffed this big duffel bag in his hands. Lately, every word I utter a word that is one step closer when he will knock me and throw me into a ditch, to surrender to the rain diffuse drown myself quietly.

In the words of mustachioed, Paris is just a good day's walk. I pray every second to arrive in time for Ragnarok.

I get up, and we continue our journey. Vincent takes the lead, and for a good time does not even turn towards me. I'm so hardened that I like walking in puddles at every step. And the sound of my wet sneakers seem even more irritating to my friend, I see the shoulders stiffen progressively.

In the distance I hear the cries of Irving. He speaks of the future evil that is being put in place, and questions my existence to me. I still find that's strange for a evil twin. When I retorted "You're the evil twin", I scream that I'll feed the rats, which startled Vincent.

He turns to me with rage and sadness, probably furious that Xavier is gone away and not me.

-You 're a fucking frosty! I shouted it.

-I do what I can.

-I 'm tired of you household.

Me I'll spare the mouth, you'll see.

He steps toward me, fists clenched, and then stops. If we do not fight here and now, I do not care much about our friendship. This is a crucial moment that we live, but my friend does not seem to realize that. It

advance towards me, and just put his face inches away from mine. The muscles of his jaw are restless bouncing and I almost expect to see smoke coming out of his ears. I realize that now, with the training I received from Xavier, I could probably send the mustache to the mat.

Rain forces us to blink constantly. I hurt everywhere even before the fight is started. The hardest thing is not shivering in my wet clothes, and do not consider this friendship fled.

Vincent closes his eyes and shrugs. A ghost ninja hovers above us, and will not leave easily. The grief of mourning we gnaws worse than rain or anger.

you adjust it later, "he sighs.

And he resumed his way to the top of our little procession. It is as if the road was called, walks like a romantic hero. There is still time for me to catch him and beat him up, to save what is left to save.

I'm back on the road. We cross the winding country and gray, an unparalleled monotony. After several hours we passed a man going by bike in reverse, and Vincent took the opportunity to extract a cigarette.

Then we enter the highway, empty and slippery, and the reflection that returns me the asphalt is wet again that Irving Rutherford. Many times we meet then contraflow people to bike or walk. Vincent even managed to negotiate a bit of bread against a pair of shoelaces.

We sit on the ramp for a picnic break. The bread is soft from having dragged the rain. Before our eyes, the number of bystanders fleeing the capital increases visibly.

-Are you surprised? wonder Vincent.

I will check with an old woman, who simply say "This is serious shit out there." That's enough for me. I'll pass the information to Vincent, who calmly nods of the head before taking off slowly on the road.

I'm a little less sure of myself with each stride. The asphalt is slippery and I go on, and missing several times. Actually I do not even know why I return to Paris.

I wrote a novel, created an evil twin, stopped writing. Now I must stop having an evil twin. One of my friends died, the other is no longer my friend. I live in a fantasy world, and now after I'm out of inspiration. The

France scares me sometimes. I feel like I never get to consider it in its entirety. But in the end I'm like everyone else, and although I still desire all fart. Although I have no idea what may happen next.

The real future is dead, finished. He went with Roger in a deluge of electricity. I would like to include more than one day in advance, but there are too many variables and I'm not smart enough.

I wrote my last novel, he talks about this a bit silly knight who drove into the pile without any strategy. When all this is over, and that I am rid of Irving Rutherford (and I have saved my country at the same time), I will try to read it, and I'm sure it gives me confidence in myself.

What am I?

I am one of the great army of losers, with my scars, my degree (unofficial) from writer-warrior, my lack of ambition and dirty way that I always miss everything that I are doing. Little by little things are improving. One day we will win, and that's why maybe I go back to Paris.

I snap my fingers that the rain stops. Vincent will surely say it is a coincidence. I savor a few seconds the return of the sun on my face, without paying attention to people around us who spend tens. The mustachioed

shoulder shakes me to make me react. I pointed to the capital on the horizon, burning and exploding. Several aircraft took turns flying over, dropping their bombs in the process. The city is still far, and no sound reaches us. It's like a fireworks inaccessible, too distant to provoke a real emotion. I can just see the queue of refugees grows in seconds.

is already Ragnarök.

-We will die, informs me Vincent.

Note: References to mythology too supported

Soon: Martine at the wrong time

How Do U Get A Scorpio Man To Want U

47. Xavier is no longer my literary agent

It a long mourning that never ceases to end. It is a twilight that takes its time so it comes to mingle with reality. It's just one of the worst days I have long been known.

the hell do you dare say you live in society?

People take me all they can, I know. There will be no end. And a friend who is dying is a part of you that he carries with him, this son of a bitch.

The weather is beautiful today. The sun shines as ever, and gives the declining been a second wind. The streets are flooded with a light that brightens colors and gives a smile to passersby. I find it almost moved.

Formerly Xavier told me that somehow people do not care about us, and when I asked him what he meant, he referred not to answer. I'm all alone and I manage not to die. I can not do better.

Nobody will come to our aid, and no compassion more than five minutes before thinking about his own problems. People take what there is to take, and I can hardly blame them.

I think Vincent has doubts. A few minutes after the disappearance of Xavier, screamed and wept after losing to consciousness, he came to find me. Red eyes and raspy voice, he asked me seriously if I had anything to do with the death of our friend. Seriously, I said no, and he was completely crazy. He

stared insistently, during what seemed a full minute, and I did not dare add. He, indeed. I went to see the corpse, and he went for a walk in the garden, and we did not seen the day.

Hesitating between crying and vomiting, and finally abandoning me or does one or the other, I pulled out the body of Xavier blankets. I grabbed clothes, and I dressed as saying he was better than I do at the time, before its members not bend over. I remember thinking 'That's it. It exactly that. "without really knowing what I was referring.

I was the news to my mother and my sisters, who did not want to see the corpse. Then I went down to the car to unload the trunk. Vincent was still in the garden, and I pointed out his presence with murmurs too distant for me to decipher.

I brought everything that was in the car inside the house, and have piled up in a closet, thinking that I probably will not touch again. Finally, I went to sit on the hood of the vehicle empty and I looked through the day. I wanted more than anything that the sun goes faster, already be tonight, tomorrow, next week, in a year.

At that time my life was it. It was exactly that. This disgusted me and I suddenly wanted to return there later. I wanted to be alone and out of time, because people and days pass m'effritent and I want to know me m'amenuise preserve.

Xavier was gone, thinking surely he had nothing to do with us. But gradually I realized that his departure was premature. I know I use a sword or finish a novel, but it's just a minimum in the world in which we live.

At dusk, I went to join Vincent in the garden, and I discovered that he had vandalized the garden. All around him stretched the torn carrots, and tomatoes are still green up crushed. The mustache was smoking a cigarette and told me it was the last.

you stop smoking?

-Of course not, it's a queer stuff, I used this ... my stock.

I noticed that his eyes avoided landing on me, and I waited a few seconds in vain that he apologized for having doubted my predictions about the death of Xavier.

I sat with him, and I ate a tiny carrot in trying to establish when it had all started messing around. When I asked him his opinion, he looked at me like I was a child who found himself in his office, and he did not know what to do.

-Since the death of Roger, he said. Listen, we must bring Xavier to his parents ...

-I have already emptied the car.

Everything was said, agreed. We got up, more determined than ever, and are mounted to the chamber of death. Vincent made no comment about the clothes I had spent Xavier, who were yet a bit too garish in the circumstances. Without a sound, we lowered the body by the stairs, go to the house in the trunk of the car.

Vincent was then installed on the passenger seat and I waited, smoothing his mustache with a worried look. I hesitated to say goodbye to my family, then I realized that anyway I did not know what to say.

-On carries not the food? I asked. Carrots?

-cores are still here.

I'm behind the wheel, a little uncomfortable. Neither Vincent nor I have a driver's license. I initiated the contact, and the roar shy of our gear did not really reassured. I entered the alley, being careful not to stall, and not crush my mother's cat who followed me on some tens of meters.

I felt that was more sprawling residential suburb as ever. Thinking out quickly, I realized that many houses had appeared on the path of the highway, something I do not notice when I'm single passenger.

It is more likely every day. It is therefore normal that it is always harder for the misanthropic assholes like me.

We drive now on the big empty highway that takes us to the parents of Xavier. The fuel gauge of the car does not finish off, and Vincent resists all attempts I make to go to him. I sincerely pity: He will not get rid of his suspicions about me, and probably will never so much my friend he was. And it will be worse when we bury Xavier.

After a few hours, he finally asked to stop to let him pee. I do it and park the car on the emergency lane. It will relieve themselves in a field, throwing occasional glances behind him to check if I am about not stab him.

I begin to tire. It is pitch dark, and it's painful for me to drive. Everything is so sad that I want to scream and go lose myself in the sleeping countryside.

We go by car, and Vincent returns his silence. A sentence for me would be enough to fix everything. Maybe two. Instead, I let the mustachioed surrendering to sleep, despite his obvious fear of not waking up.

-On will not be enough fuel to return to Paris next, I said to myself.

we come in on foot, dozing Vincent.

I ride in the dark until it is completely asleep. I lost several friends today. And grieving is far from over.

I cut the headlights and try to feel the emptiness, fill my emptiness, understand the true absence. I distinguish the barriers on both sides of the vehicle, which lead me straight to full speed. I feel that the road is open now, know exactly how it all will end.

I close my eyes. I find myself in an even darker world. There is neither goblin or super hero, and I can not even fly in this imaginary realm that I had built. It just looks like two huge eyes closed, and life after writing.

I succeeded. I have depopulated all around me, and now I'm as lonely as I wanted. And like everything depends only on me, I know how it all will end.

In a last effort of imagination, I am Martine appear in the middle of the black world. It's been so long that I did not mind that some contours of his face is blurred. So I focus on her body. Mentally, I is the Supergirl costume, and come near me tenderly to her to undress.

While I drag one of his braces on my order, she drops the phrase that I dream to hear that from the beginning: "Save us, man of steel!"

Vincent

wonder why I ride with the headlights off, and I immediately reopen the eyes. I note with relief that he did not notice that I had closed.

-Anyway there is nobody I said.

-There are people everywhere, grumbles he fell asleep again.

Note: Do not use your real fantasies

Soon: Vincent dramatizes

Milena-velba-airport-security

My evening with Jeff

I never really listened to Jeff Fillion. Admittedly, I've caught a few snippets it was issued, when raging at CHOI in a taxi, an elevator, a waiting room, even in the office I shared with one of his fans. He was a populist leader, who told his listeners what they wanted to hear while on their side, they believed pull the Truth of his mouth. It followed the same logic as the smoked sausage that more people eat ... The fact that he risks his career, among others, to talk about the bust of a host of TV virtually unknown who had turned down so that they studied together left me cold. That and his other escapades, leaving no one closes a radio. Anyway, the courts would eventually take on Jeff.

I knew so little. I perceived as a supporter of libertarianism, the political ideology based on my uncle rich property that advocates the virtual disappearance of States for not letting up as the market rules and can easily do without democracy. Exit human dignity! It was also groupie of the Montreal Economic Institute, a charity (yes, yes, go check!) That serves as marketing agency to high finance by taking features of a think tank whose objective is to convince people that the order of things can not be changed: the rich get richer and the poor get poorer because it is in Nature. In short, Jeff would be a pirate of the establishment rather naive and submissive, a fearsome snake swallower.

On Twitter, there are sometimes quite lively debates, such as last Thursday between Jeff and Antoine Robitaille, journalist Duty and one of my old buddies View in Quebec, about the place and effectiveness of the Quebec state opposed those of private real deus ex machina. I summarize the conclusion of debate, it is online if you want verbatim:

Antoine: Democracy, unlike the private, allows people to choose their leaders.

Jeff: But people really have a choice?

Anthony: In the last municipal election, Quebecers had the choice between Labeaume and you. And

vlan, gums!

Tweet fight!

Jeff has not answered the last replica of Antony. Later in the evening, there will Fillion one of we believe its usual chirping written by the author of the autobiography of Sarah Palin with the same clichés, the same paranoia, the demonization of the left haughty, and more, never accept being wrong and denunciation of the vile media message " mainstream" (sic ). I go in game and tell him he has done awfully close the valve by Anthony during the afternoon. He replied that he did not have time to see all the messages we left him on Twitter. I replied that it is a very weak defense that looks more like an admission of defeat. (Frankly, he would exchange with a reporter of Duty during part of the afternoon and leave before the end! Come on!) The response: "You can think what you want ..... do you think it's going to change anything whatsoever in my life .... seriously?? :-))» ( sic).

Time is confused on Twitter. The messages arrive and depart, intersect, and the chronology is hard to follow. I continue to Jeff and launches it seems more comfortable in repeating shots to his followers that debate, it is basically like Plato with Yesmen following his teaching and do qu'ânonner: "O yes sir, you're right master." Meanwhile, he invited me to accompany him to the radio and to debate him on his show, stating the day. I told him that my job requires that I ask leave to my bosses and I do not refuse outright. Then turn of events: "Ok you, you seem to have a problem. It's sad that twitter accumulates nipples .... we had fun before! "(sic ). As I said above, time is vague on Twitter: our sequences of events that may not be the same ...

However, what did I do it for me désinvitât, I wondered? I had yet compared to one of the greatest philosophers of antiquity! A straight guy too!

Shortly thereafter, Jeff sent me a direct message, that is to say that nobody else could see on Twitter, implored me, with insults, unsubscribe from it. I replied that he had only block me ...

This adventure made me sad. I liked the dialogue between slobbery manly. But the invitation to his show it was a trap to scare me, I close the door? Why this volte-face? I do not want the guy yet, but its lack of critical thinking, his tiny universe demagogue which dissolves the reason, his speech peppered with shots teabaggers . True freedom, which comes with culture and education, overcomes ideology, see their strengths and weaknesses, to choose which way to go, to be sovereign.

bad. I wish he was my friend. I'd invited to dinner. I would have made a hot-chicken .
Small
readings
Philippe van Parijs, What is a just society? , Paris, Seuil, 1991.
Jacques Genereux, The real laws of economics , Paris, Seuil, 2005.

Two titles for Jeff so he arranges them next to works of Hayek, Nozick, Friedman, Rothbard and Rand of which must fill the shelves of his library. In the first, he should read the chapter "The ambiguity of libertarianism" which concludes that libertarianism - as it is known here - was ultimately not chosen to promote a redistribution of income. Then the second is to feed its upcoming interviews with efficient favorites - there are national and Association, there are also economists fundamentalists and obtuse I néologise efficient - followers of the neoliberal version they treat their subject as a religion, whose dogmas, as generous, should be eliminated.

Increase My Processer

46. Vincent impatient

My statue of Superman does not fit not in the car. Yet we tried everything, we have turned in every direction imaginable, nothing works. I will have to abandon it there and it fills me with infinite sadness.

Vincent tries to close the trunk is already packed to overflowing, with my shit and told me there will be more room for business Xavier when the latter is asked to wake up.

Xavier has contributed nothing, I say. And I have not finished loading my stuff.

Vincent lights a cigarette sullen. I go back inside the house and found my mother sitting on the stairs. She asks me if I'm ready From sipping his coffee.

"Not yet. I have many things to take away.

I seized a box of comics, and won out. It contains the remnants of my old collection, and the starting point of the story. It will be more important than before.

Vincent fills the back seat of victuals, and groan when I open the trunk. He asks me to activate, because it does not go too late.

-To avoid traffic jams?

-Shut up.

I do not know why as soon as I load a car I feel like going on vacation. Maybe because a parcel of air that I breathe in the moment is in charge of melancholy, even if it has nothing to do with the start.

I refuse the cigarette Vincent handed me, and make another round trip to a carton. The mustache is a jaded remark on the fact that it is now certain that the trunk will not close more.

-I need new business, "I said.

-You 're not even an apartment to you ...

The road will be long until Paris, with such a pain in the ass. Vincent did not let himself be touched by moments of grace.

-In fact, I have an idea of something to write for you, says he.

-Do it yourself. I write more.

-It's about you.

-I am just that.

I sit on the hood of the car and rubbed my arms to relax. I'll probably never do more writer. None of the novels that I would not write worth of iron a year like I have to live.

Actually I look forward to all this is over, and we have won the battle. When Irving Rutherford and his band of acorns are no longer of this world, every day will be gold. I shave the beard, and I start smoking again. I will ensure my future collection of comics. -You think

always in the future? wonder Vincent.

-According to my sources, the future is a mess.

And then?

I confronted my gaze to his, and I have to swallow excessively to suppress a flood of gratitude that swept into my mouth. A desire to thank him for his confidence in the future fool seizes me. Vincent is not afraid of economic crisis or decline of social values. He does not care about wars and global warming.

When I asked him what he wanted me to write, I see his face light up. He tells me with relish the story of a young gangster who reverses itself the Mafia in his hometown, for finally take control.

And how come there?

"Because it's good. Because he has a pair of balls so big that he lugs around in a wheelbarrow.

I keep myself from asking if I speak well in metaphor. I realize that I do not really regret not to tell the story of this guy who pushes his cart, and realizes with sadness that this may be less difficult than I thought to give up writing.

"I have written a novel," I said. Sometimes that's enough.

-Damn, it still pionce, another con?

Without paying attention to me or my moods, he returned inside the house. Often I would be less stupid. I would consider the overall situation and make choices that mean something. Look beyond the obstacles in my path, to which I sink.

My mom just brought me coffee, and sits on the hood with me. His eyes filled with longing, and she tells me feel that I am leaving for the first time.

"Because I bring more business.

"Because you're an adult.

I shrug my shoulders and it goes hand in my face, ruffling my beard playfully. I tasted his coffee, which looks like the fleet, and complimented it. I fixed the path and flags in front of us in silence, reluctant to make certain disclosures. I could explain where my scars, or why my apartment burned down. But I'm not a writer, I've probably never even been, and words fail me. I finally tell him that I had cancer this year.

Me too, "she says.

I spend an arm around her shoulders, and she suddenly looks tiny. She quickly emerged to settle quietly in the hammock in the garden and read a book on the place of women in a country unknown to me.

And shit. I decide to abandon the idea of continuing to load the trunk, and leave it at that. I'll look into the garage of the tendons to close. I m'escrime for a few minutes to make my setup more or less solid, and back to gaze with a satisfied air.

Vincent leaves the house, arms dangling, looking dazed. His eyes are pleading, and planted on me like nails. "Ask me" seems to beg it. And yet I will not ask him.

-It not wake up, "he finally said.

I nod, fatalistic. The mustachioed shakes a trembling finger from right to left and shudders involuntarily. Terror is with him all around him, across him. She freezes her tears before they hatch, and prevents it from making constructed sentences.

-You do not understand, "he shivered, he woke up.

"I understand.

-You do not understand. Follow me.

On jerky steps, without bothering to congratulate me for having closed the trunk, he returned inside the house.

I offer one last breath revivifying before my life becomes a real mess. The summer is coming to an end, but still clings not bad, and will be hard to dislodge. The departure will certainly be delayed, but it leaves me time to learn to push my barrow.

Note: Cold

Soon: Xavier is no longer my literary agent