While riding the metro today, I glanced at myself in the mirrors of the automatic doors and a thought struck me like a bolt of lightning.

By God, I’ve become French.

To give you a rundown of my outfit, I was wearing black tights, ripped jean shorts, tall brown boots with a heel, a loose grey tanktop underneath a tailored black blazor, a fancy French scarf, minimal makeup, and sporting headphones and a Longchamp bag as I rode the metro oh-so-casually to class. This came, of course, after drinking coffee and eating almond financiers, my favorite sugary snack (they are addictive. They are one of those foods that must have crack in them), and attempting to fit a friend’s American-style research paper into tricky French methodology just to see if the logic made sense. It did. Coldplay was on repeat on my iPod, and although they are a British band, they are just as whiney and sullen as Parisians themselves. And so, it is with great disappointment that I inform you, I have been French’d.



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