(no subject)
Dear Spirit, I'm in France.
So, no lie, there I was, happily roasting over open hellfires, and the next thing I know, I'm in France, land of frog-eating frogs and phallic towers and english haters. I don't even speak french. A fat old man threw a loaf, and a pan, and kitchen knife, jabbering away at the top of his lungs the whole time, and it is SO not my fault that I fell into his vat of soup. Come on, I got poked by all that crappy chicken bones too, besides, who knows, I might have added extra flavour, being charred from all the previous grilling, having been, you know, turning over the hell fires before this, so it's not like I spoilt it or anything. Also, I cracked a tooth eating his bread, so huh, it's not like we are talking fancy cuisine here, are we?
Anyways, I managed to get out of that, aha, almost wrote hellhole there, but having spent some time in an real hell, I feel like I am enough of an authority on the topic to say, that, no, it wasn't an ACTUAL hellhole. That would be later, when I got lost in the Louvre, together with 70 million tourists.
Oops, running out of space on the postcard. Will write again when I have the chance! Keep them hellfires burning! XXX