terror is stronger than horror, though it usually lasts for a shorter time

So a bit obsessed with my own blog and curious to see who else is, I went on my sitemeter today and made a terrifying discovery. The man whose blatant rejection inspired one of the first entries has been reading. I have no fucking idea how he found it, why he found it and why he's a loyal reader. Well, the last one I can only assume is morbid curiousity. But, what the fuck? How did you even know I had a blog, you weirdo!

I don't know what would possess someone to seek out the rants of a woman they dismissed for being neurotic and needy. That's all this blog is. Why? HOW?! First my blood ran cold, then as I began regaining feeling in my face (is that the Topamax?), I felt a bit guilty for describing him as "lazy-eyed." To be honest, I never saw his so-called lazy-eye, this was something he said he suspected but found too maddening to confirm. As for the fact that one leg was shorter than the other, this was evident in his gait. And calling him a midget, that was just because I was bitter. I mean AM bitter. You are a wanker without a spine- a spineless wanker. And a tosser! My ire requires British insults. How do you conspire (I realize a conspiracy needs more than one person but in this case I'm referring to Mr.Hyde who lurks beneath) to cross the line with your friend, repeatedly blow her off, cancel the plans for a budding romance and then... I'm on a roll, when she has a heart big enough to forgive you and resume a platonic friendship, shut her out completely- AGAIN?!

And since I have your attention, you should know that the second time I went on holiday with two boys, it was actually fun. They didn't sneak off and get high or drop me off at the restaurant to wait 25 minutes for a table by myself while they jacked off or did whatever with each other in the car. They had FUN! Ironic considering, they're about five years younger than you and your "best friend" but are light years ahead in terms of both chivalry and emotional growth. Jackhole!

I need a cigarette. But I don't smoke. Then what's that coming out of my ears?

Let me tell you one thing, only..

That's how so many sentences that came out of one of my beloved travel companions would begin. "Let me tell you one thing- you must wake up or we will see the Louvre 2000 without you." Now imagine that being said with the utmost earnestness in a thick Indian accent and you'll understand why my entire trip to Paris was spent doubled over in laughter.

At the risk of copyright infringement, I must, MUST, share the email from one of the guys I went to Paris with. This was his response after being granted access to my blog. He, like HPG, was threatening to go mining the internet for it so I thought I'd spare him the trouble. Anyway, this is Louvre 2000's reaction to the Love Pariah after having spent 5 days and nights with her in gay Parhee:

Well -- our Internet has been down for a few hours (not a good thing for a newspaper that wants to occasionally maybe publish online), so I just read it. Let me tell you more than one thing.

1) It was not a brothel!

2) Traveling with a girly was a nice idea, and I guess you get credit for that. We would've bored each other staring at guidebooks the whole time, or perhaps him staring at a guidebook while I tripped over something, and we would've ended up in a tiny hotel room where I might've smothered him to death for the snoring. He's a wonderful person and I'd give him my spare kidney if he ever needed one, but I owe you for being the one to sleep by him.

3) I haven't really read through the other stuff, but with a quick glance I see (a) a photo of food that appears to be shot with a digital camera (ahem, not a bad idea) and (b) a picture of a barely clothed woman. How oh how could you complain about walking by Moulin Rouge? (And we weren't actually planning to go to the Louvre 2000 that day, madame.)

4) This is a really damn fine blog and I'm looking forward to reading more of it when I'm done with dinner.

5) I will not divulge it to anyone, even (3rd traveler's name omitted here). Secrets are always safe with me.

6) It wasn't a fucking brothel!

7) I hope you feel better from the flu-like symptoms.

Thank you, Louvre 2000. Yes, that is your code name on the Love Pariah's blog, deal with it. A couple of points of clarification. Our "junior suite", as it was so generously described online when we were booking it, technically had three beds. One queen size bed, with a twin bed across from it, and another twin bed upstairs in a loft fit for a hobbit. The first couple of nights, I awoke in sheer horror because I thought our travel companion was asphyxiating in his sleep. His snoring had segued from a lawn-mower to a loud wheezing that sounded like he was gasping for his last breath. By the third night, I was tired of trying to avoid touching the grimy wall my bed was fit snugly against and I decided to sleep in the real bed occupied by the lawnmower. I pushed my earplugs to dangerous depths in my ear canals and put on an eye mask. The wheezing was muted enough to resemble the faint whir of a loud generator.

Second point of clarification: "photo of food that appears to be shot with a digital camera (ahem, not a bad idea)". Louvre 2000 had a penchant for taking photos of everything. Never was this more evident than when he would whip out the camera before we dove into whatever food we had ordered. Good or bad, Louvre 2000 was poised and ready to document the culinary experience.

And finally, the "Short Bus" was a movie poster I had to document to show Americans that riding the short bus isn't always a bad thing.

Voila!

Voila! In English, we use this word sparingly. It usually precedes a big reveal. You asked for a home makeover- voila! Your newly-decorated abode awaits. In Paris, this word is used more often and with less emphasis. It was a bit disconcerting when I was at a boutique and asked if they had my size in something.

The snooty clerk surprised me as she showed me where by saying, "Voila." Clearly, for Parisians, voila is the equivalent of "here" as in "here it is."

That's all I got. I'm fighting flu-like symptoms and trying to defy my carb-cravings. This makes for a dull love pariah. I should be a stress grenade given my upcoming dinner party for 16 people. Calm down. If you weren't invited it's either because, A. I don't know you and object to you reading my blog anyway, or B. you are not single.

That's right, it's a party for eligible singletons only so we can "network, circulate, socialize" and any other euphemisms for "desperately seeking partner to spare us from future social engagements restricted to sad singles." It will be fun, no doubt, because it's at mine... but I've only invited compatible partners for my friends, working diligently to balance the guest list so there are attractive options for both genders. However, in my selfless endeavor, I neglected to consider if there will be anyone for me. I'm hoping that if a union does come from my little dinner experiment, the newly-coupled singletons will feel charitable and set me up with someone perhaps outside of my existing social circle.

In the meantime, I'm fending off suitors thrust into my email inbox from

my mother and grandmother.

"He's not handsome, handsome, but he's good-looking."

I don't even want to know what that means. No doubt a frog who morphs into a troll instead of a prince with my luck. Voila! Your gnome awaits...