tu es mon monde.

tu es mon monde; translation: you are my world.

Bonjour, and welcome to the musings, the unprecedented and completely personal thoughts of Ariele. aka, me.

Let's just clear some things out first.

1.) I'm guiltily and obsessively a fashion slave. When I'm not furiously trying to examine Tolstoy's War and Peace and trying to write an essay describing the themes within his novel, I'm reading fashion blogs, googling my favourite designers and envying all the clothes all over the World Wide Web.
2.) About all the French - I was born and raised in France, Paris with my family. My father was American, so I was taught both English and French, and I moved to America three years ago to study and enhance my academic skills, not realizing how much I'd miss the quiet serenity of Paris compared to the crazy and hectic city of New York.
3.) Describing myself, it's harder than it seems. How can you put yourself a way that doesn't sound conceited? OK, I have long brown hair, blue eyes, I'm fairly thin, but not in a Kate-Moss circa. Calvin Klein style, and I'm tall, 172cm. I have the hints of a French accent, which is slowly becoming warped with the American drawl, which I'm trying very hard to fight against. And when I'm not kicking back at my shabby flat shared with my roommate and college friend who we'll refer to as Mia, per se, struggling to try and cook something creative and once again returning to the worn Chinese menu, trying to scrape together savings from my job (assistant & secretary at a mani-pedi place, it's hell. More coming on that front), clubbing at free and unhygienic hellholes in an attempt to feel like I have a social life, I'm trying and not coping well through classes.
4.) Boys, the one thing that could ever challenge my love for fashion and music. I've had a herd of boy related relationships, a small number of one night stands, one or two serious boyfriends that have never really felt, well, serious enough. Of course, that whole retrospective of "single and loving it" changed last night. Once again, more coming on that front.
5.) I get regular and nostalgic phone calls from my slightly insane mother and glamorous older sister, as I successfully lie about my happy, cheerful, perfect New York lifestyle in my swanky new flat with my hot new businessman boyfriend. I'm livin' in a lie.

OK, I may as well start from this morning. It's 7:00am, I'm exhausted as usual. I drag myself out of bed, and with a wary glance in the closet, decide I couldn't care less what I look like as I toss on a creased white button down, skinny dark jeans, my plain deep brown kitten heels and I of course, loop a shimmery black LV knockoff scarf around my neck (I'm usually a hater of knockoffs, but this morning's activites kind of required the quasi-designer boost of confidence.) I manage to scrape my tangled hair back in some sort of ratty updo as I stagger into the dimly lit kitchen. Honestly, I'm not even wearing makeup. My roommate, Mia, eyes me warily, and I pray to God knows who's out there that she'll take in my mismatched, crumpled new look as some sort of international Parisian chic. She shrugs and turns, and tosses me a banana. Naturally, I notice it coming about five seconds after it sails in the air towards my head and it falls to the floor in a deep splat. Nothing damaged, except for my weight as I down the kilojoule-infected, bruised banana hungrily. My day off classes, and already my day of relaxation before a night of partying is out the window.
Basically, long story short, Mia's family is coming to visit, and in less than half an hour, and their eta? 7 fricking 30. Who does that? My commands from Mia is to, "Get the hell out of here by 7:20, I don't care what the fuck you do." Your wish is my command. So now, I'm rushing out of the apartment, it's 7:15 and I look like hell personified, with nowhere to go. I have hardly any friends in New York, apart from Mia and our gaggle of "girls", who are all living with boyfriends, or sisters, or bestfriends, and Adam, my guy-best friend who is single, but lives in a hole worse than mine. I stumble down the pavement, and already there are people out, laughing and chattering, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as a herd of chipmunks. I manage to hold the swearing and screaming behind my tongue before heading into the nearest Starbucks. Oh thank God. Johnny, the 40-something year old guy who works the counter, gives me a confused smirk, probably not used to seeing me in a Desperate-Housewives meets Businesswoman-Slut outfit. But i shoot him my biggest glare and he backs off, without even so much asking where Adam is. Within minutes, I'm seated, with the latest Vogue, American, admittedly, and a steaming hot coffee in my hand.I'm glancing at the weekly style watch of Victoria Beckham when I hear Johnny calling, and it's Adam. I smile when I see him, as often as I do, and he looks the same as usual, weirdly dorky sweater vest and wild black-brown curls hanging over doe eyes and a lanky pale bony figure. "Hey Ad." I sigh, and he grins. "Ariele, you'll never believe..." He starts chirping away excitedly, his doe-brown eyes lighting up. "Anyway, I hafta go.... See ya, Ele." He saunters out after his busy monologue, most likely catching onto my black mood. I reutrn to my happy land of Vogue. My phone, nicknamed "the Brick", possibly used by American soldiers in the Civil War, chirps. I jump, and brown sloshy and steaming hot liquid pours angrily and vengefully all over my jeans and over Posh Beckham's pout, and truly fierce outfit. After hobbling away, swearing under my breath and facing fears that my legs have been burnt -therefore; no more cute Sass and Bide bikini which took up a whole month's paycheck to flaunt in the summer- I check the demon that caused this whole mess, (not Mia, and her family issues, I mean the phone.) I recognize the gaggle of numbers, and I turn my phone off irritably, there's no way in hell I can excitedly chirp to my mother about how beautiful and how great and how well everything is working out in New York, and then hear in return how fantastically Giselle's fashion model gig in France is going. (Giselle- i.e., my bitchy and entirely too glamorous sister. it's not normal.) That's when I feel a tap on my shoulders, and I turn. My eyes are practically blazing, and I'm tired, pissed off and determined to just walk back into my apartment and flop onto my creaky mattress, Mia's demonic wrath and all. Instead, I'm faced with a pair of big, brown eyes I swear could melt the frickin' Wicked Witch of the West's heart, and in return, I melt. Quite literally, the wind is making the wet soaky patches on my crotch reigon ice cold. The owner of these eyes smiles bashfully, and I register the rest of his face and body- wow. Wow. Wow. They don't make them like this in France. He has cropped deep brown hair and cheekbones that you only really see on glossy Burberry ads. He's muscular, but not too much in a disgusting I'm-On-Steroids-But-I'm-Just-Going-To-Deny-It way, in a lean and mean way. He's tall, a whole half head above me, and wearing a thick, black jacket and jeans that highlight his gluteus maximus tres nicely. I probably looked like a stunned penguin in the face of a sexy leopard seal, but hey, I was enjoying my view. He smiled and held something out. "Is this yours? You dropped it just now..." I gasp and fight the urge to grab my flat key. His voice trails, along with his eyes, which flicker on the dark brown patches on my crotch. OK, shit. "I spilt coffee. On my crotch, and on Posh Beckham." I stammer nervously. Oh God why? I can see laughter in his eyes, hopefully of the good kind i beg to myself. "I mean, I spilt coffee whilst reading a magazine, and unfortunately Posh Becks looks more tanned than ever." I finally manage, voice trembling ever so slightly. I don't know if this is possible, but I swore I see abs through his coat... Instead, I smile what I hope is sexily. I wonder if I swiped some of the mud from the ground onto my eyelashes that would work as mascara... and if I dressed in leaves, draping them in a sexy kimono way instead of this soccer-Mom get up. Or better yet, just go completely commando. Boys always like that.
Instead, Burberry-Boy smiles at me shyly and smiles. "I'm Tom." I fight the irrestible urge to scream, "Tom, do me right here and now!" Instead, I manage a composed smile back. "Ariele," I add. He smiles. "Cool. Hey... do you want to go out for coffee sometime? If you can handle it, that is." I honestly didn't think in that moment my heart was behaving healthily. Instead, I just nodded jerkily, probably looking diseased and mentally stunted as he asked my number, and I repeated it robotically, as he typed it into his shiny new iPhone, and with a stylish nod, he disappeared within the throes of New York-ians, leaving me cold, coffee-stained and completely affected. Eventually, I pulled myself together and also slunk into the crowd, mainly because I was getting tired of the creepy looks strangers were giving the girl who looked like she had wet herself. I decided vaguely to head back to the apartment, change, maybe crash for a couple of hours with my phone next to my head. Well, I probably wasn't going to expect any sleep for the next couple of hours until he called. I stepped into the flat area where all the letterboxes were, when I saw a guy walking down the stairs. He's sexy, but in a completely un-Burberry way. He's chiselled, with a squarish jaw and big, deep blueish eyes. He's muscular and tough, with longish blonde hair and an intensely broody and moody face expression. Think Ryan Atwood from the good old O.C. days but actually not constipated looking, and you have it right there and then. Our eyes meet, and I curse myself for seeing two hot guys while looking bladder-challenged, slutty and middle aged and unhygienic. He eyes me, amused. "I don't normally look like this." I blurt out. He watches me, humour in his eyes. "Hey, I didn't say anything." There's a long silence after his deep, slightly husky voice tinges the air. "Just saying. I normally don't look like a Desperate Housewife." This time, he chuckles softly. "Whatever. I'm not stuck on appearances." He gives me a meaningful look and I blink. "I'm not stuck on appearances! I'm just saying..." I protest furiously. He turns slowly, and he gives me a long, brooding stare, somehow sexier than ever. "Sure. Say what you want." I narrow my eyes. "Whatever. I just need to get changed." I sigh, and roll my eyes, running and brushing past him what I hope is sexily. When i cast a glance over my shoulder, he's rolling his eyes at me, bemused. I bite back my frustration and find myself at door 22, and burst in. Big mistake. Mia is sitting at the table, a fakely happy smile on her face, and her Mom is next to her, dressed in this weird suit skirt thing I swear old ladies in Kentucky wear. Her curls are coiffed in this high weird do, and I swear she's Barbra Streisland and Kim Cattral's twin. And after the evil glare she gives me, I change that mentally to evil twin. "Amelia, who in heaven's name is this?" She manages to shoot me a degrading stare whilst shooting her husband, a weedy and nerdy looking Bill-Gates type a look of disgust. I roll my eyes. "Oh, just another squatter. You're not welcome here, um... Crystal!" She boos, trying to flick me away with her tattoed wrist. I blink at her, slightly wide eyed. "Um, Mia, I'm your roommate." I say heavily, feeling the what was once coffee staining my skin. Great, poo-brown stains on my legs for all eternity too. Instead, Mia's mother, The Devil Incarnate, (Furthmore known as TDI) gives me a haughty sneer. "Amelia's roommate is a successful lawyer." I choke back my laughter and roll my eyes, giving Mia a glare. I'm turning to leave when I hear a voice that has already made me majorly pissed off. "Mom? Mia? Dad?" It's that arrogant blonde guy. My mouth drops open a little before I snap it up. He eyes me amusedly. "It's you, Miss Appearances," He adds. "Don't talk to her, Logan. She's a squatter." TDI hisses, and you'd think I have rabies or something. I roll my eyes. "I'm not a squatter, I live here." I begin to protest, but I walk away, deciding to go to Adam's rat infested lair anyway. But as I'm walking out, "Logan" the asshole catches my eye, and I have to admit there's nothing else I want than to grab his sexy lips and kiss him right then and there. Of course, if Tom didn't exist.
And if this Logan guy wasn't such an ass.

jusqu'à la prochaine fois,
translation: until next time,

-A