Tourist Visa and all that Jazz

After realizing that I could be gagged, tortured, belittled, reprimanded, pay a fine and/or banished from this country at either the European airports or the American airports for leaving after my three-month tourist stay, I searched every drawer, purse and crevice in the apartment for a cigarette to calm me down -- I even sifted through the ashtrays for a half-finished cancer stick. Yes, I know, I'm a disgusting little chimney puffer.

I finally had to give in and pull on my jeans and coat, check my face in the mirror to make sure it looked presentable in public and walk to the nearest Tabac. "Hmm," I thought as I walked past the grocery store of my favorite Arabian man, "What would go great with Marlboro lights at a stressful time like this? A bit of nipple eye fondling, maybe? No, too much effort to unbutton my coat. Perhaps, the smooth, creamy texture of liquid slithering down my throat? Oh, yeah, that's it." I snatched me a bottle of Kasteel bier, brewed in Belgium and oh, so yummy! It's better than sex. Far surpasses the taste of -- come on -- did you really think I was going to write that. Too easy.

The alcoholic in me also begged for a bottle of red wine, so I submitted to her...his...it's request and purchased a cute, curvy bottle of JeanJean Merlot. Don't ask me why I bought it or how I come to choose such a fine wine because, um... I don't. My wine choosing system works like this: "Wow, that bottle is really pretty. It's less than 5 euros, too. And, people have been buying it. OK, I'll go with that." Usually they taste like crap, but after two or three glasses, you're not drinking it for the taste, right?

As I sit here writing this blog, sipping my second glass of wine at 5 p.m. in the afternoon, I'm not too worried about paying a huge fine at the airport, being deported from France and/or banned for seven years. Wanna know why? Because I have my cigarettes, my wine, the cold air nipping at my frozen toes...and I'm gonna get laid tonight, and tomorrow, and every other day until I leave. So, what's there to fret about?