You’re like me. You hate on hipsters and you make fun of (and are strangely fond of) eurotrash riffraff. And yet there’s that part of you that cannot help itself. It started out small, back when you were just some punk kid in middle school. You watched old movies and tried to look like (or find girls like) Audrey Hepburn and Jean Seberg in Paris. You perfected your Bardot pout and sang mangled lyrics to Jane Birkin and Juliette Greco songs. But then, as you got older, you found yourself wanting to have an affair with (or be) Antoine Doinel. You kept a dog eared copy of Bonjour, Tristesse by your bed. You didn’t stop at Baudelaire and Rimbaud - you went straight for Batailles and Celine. You became deeply acquainted with the sexual life of catherine m. You name-dropped more l’effetes francaises at parties than Jean Lorrain pulled rough trades in tea rooms. You smiled secretly to yourself every time the English girl in that movie ‘An Education’ randomly slipped in a French word or term into every conversation. Same goes for Holly GoLightly’s frequent use of ‘quelle this and that, quelle rat’. It began to dawn on you - you are that person. You have the affectations, you have the francophile tendencies, you pretend you can speak french. Just admit it already. I have.
