Lola's Fantastic Adventures and Dreams
The French, the Goddamn Europeans, every soul of a man living on that continent could make my knees go weak. You see them in magazines, perfectly toned bodies in perfectly crisp blue suits. How can a woman, a girl, resist? If lust were a god, you’ll find me worshipping her feet at the temple. When I moved back home fresh out of college, all I could ever dream of was a French lover to whisk me away from the solitariness of provincial life-drab, colourless, sterile. I tried studying their language for all the summers it cost to slide away from home. I borrowed a thick smelly French book from the library; I lasted until page one hundred before I had to return it because it was past the due date. Then I had a marvellous idea, if I can’t speak the language of love maybe I can cook my way through a French man’s stomach. For three days straight, I drenched my limp white bread in olive oil and penne sauce. The house started smelling like herbal medicine after that so I had to stop. Surely there could be something else I could do, well I knew for a fact that the French revered art. As far as I know, they’re crazy about it and I also know that art is something I am particularly mildly good at. So I picked up my 60 peso paintbrushes and stroked away until something desirable to look at appeared on the page. It took me a whole week to figure out why the watercolour papers were shredding every time I painted. It appears I’ve been dousing my brushes with too much water. About fourteen days later, after the excitement has died down and I realized my paintings were no more original than stock images on Google, I gave up. That was five years ago, it’s been quite some time since I’ve been back home. I’m still quite young but not any wiser on how to get a French man to fall in love with me. Oh and by the way, if you see me on Tinder and you’re not French, do us a favour and swipe left.