en francais

I watched "Scar Face" today. Damn good movie. Sad and violent.
Met Big D for coffee on 4th and watched all the beautiful Kits people stroll by (including my good friend C). Wow. I was five to ten years too old and twenty pounds too heavy to be hanging there. And don't even get me started on my attire!
Wandered over to my mom's and we strolled down to Granville Island for some dinner on a patio. We walked past people running and biking and flying kites, past Bard on the Beach, past a young guy drinking beer out of can that said, "hello, pretty ladies" and bid us a good night (even though it was 6:39pm) and past a guy playing some funky stringed instrument on a bench in front of the beautiful houseboats moored in Granville Island.
Then I got in my car and headed for the mountains and I was listening to Radio Canada because they play some really sexy uptempo electronica and, as I sped down Georgia it seemed like all the lights were green and this normally busy street was vacant and welcoming to me and I had this brief flash of wanting to be in some luxe, high performance car (it would be a standard, even though I can't drive them) that had a leather interior, wearing a short skirt and sexy heels with the sound system oozing out this sensual music, except in this instance I wouldn't be driving home, but would instead be in my roaring, vibrating car, tearing up the Sea to Sky highway en route to my vacation home in Whistler, but I would only stop there long enough to drop off my keys, put on an even shorter skirt and go to some late night rave where I would drop ecstasy and they would be playing the CBC 3 Electronic Playlist and it would be a warm summer night and I would easily attract a young, virile, taut but highly intelligent and very articulate man (because in this scenario I am five years younger and ten pounds lighter and I haven't yet discovered any gray hairs and the crows feet I have are only just now being hinted at) who would seduce me in the most erotic manner as we danced and sipped cognac and lay on our backs in the cool, dewey grass smoking pot and talking about how God doesn't really exist and that God is something that people create out of thin air and they draw on it and take comfort in the concept of it and they believe that God loves them unequivocally when the irony is that there is no God so all these feelings of unconditional love and bliss and acceptance are from within and that we are all God(s).
Then we would stumble and crumple through my doorway and be half naked by the time we reached the bedroom where we would engage in inventive and acrobatic sex for so long that we would wake earlier than normal because of hunger pangs.
Because the mores of society still seep into my subconscious I will feel somewhat bad in the morning and will be imbued with a vague sense of obligation to escort this delectable man with the immanently kissable mouth to the door but somehow we'll get on the topic of something like how much Walmart sucks, or alternative societies and he'll end up staying for brunch and then giving me a massage, all the while complimenting me on my athletic physique, eloquent decorating choices and how decent it was for me to scoop up the wayward spider and place it, gently, outside.
Arrived home. Didn't unload the dishwasher.
Really, really must shampoo my rug.
Also? Ate too much at dinner.