...Mais Non

Easy come, easy go, right?
I am no longer in the "performance" division.
As usual, French bureaucracy has had the last laugh. When my teacher met up with the head of our school to request my change, he rejected the possibility because it would be "inappropriate" to have me skip another level. She insisted that I was ready for it. He insisted that it was just not something they do, and that it was "too fast." My teacher didn't even mention this yesterday until I asked her about it at the end of the lesson.
If you read the last post, you will notice I soothsaid this occurence. I don't know if "soothsaid" is a verb, but I was not surprised in the least to receive this news.
Philip suggested I burn down Paris. I don' t know. Displacing 11 million people and destroying billions upon billions of dollars worth of art and monuments might be a bit extreme, and I'd need a lot of matches.
I think the only thing left to do is to withdraw in despair to my practice room, suffer some horrible chemical burn, make a costume, and take my revenge out on the innocent citizens of Gotham.
At the very least, I can put on a cape and start yelling at people in the street. That'll show 'em.
Oh well, maybe next year. Stupid France.

A term in America is starting to catch on: "serial monogamist." This is that rare breed of person that moves from serious relationship to serious relationship with reptilian speed and cunning: they date somebody and live with them for two years, are single for a week, date somebody else for another two years, etc.
It's sort of a weird concept in America, but the French are the most heinous offenders when it comes to serial monogamy.
Although my methodology is probably flawed and my p value may be a bit high, I would guess that 80% of women over the age of 21 are in serious relationships. A Frenchman even admitted to me yesterday that by the age of 23, most French women are settled into something serious.
I was out at a medical school's soiree until 5AM. Although I rarely feel like I'm living the "early 20s in Paris life," this heaving club full of free alcohol, girls in nurses outfits, and strobe lights felt like a genuine "night out."
However, I only had to say "Salut" to a girl before some skinny dude wearing a black tank top with gelled hair would walk over and give me the "no go" sign.
If I find an unlocked Peugeot full of blood-stained gold bars outside my apartment, I will be mildly surprised.
If I meet a single French girl, I will conclude that the apocalypse has arrived.

Okay, this is the last time for a while I'll complain about French dating customs. I'll give it at least three days.