​ I love, love, love crepes, but I’ve had them a lot, and they don’t tend to change a lot from place to place.

But then, I found Princess Crepes.

Princess Crepes is a kawaii creperie. I did not know what this meant at first. I didn’t need to. I was magnetically attracted to the gigantic, heart-shaped window, pink ruffles and frills, and cute graphics as though Princess Crepes is where I was meant to be.

The interior is completely pink. The sweet girls who work behind the counter wear pink heart aprons and flower crowns. I felt truly at home.

They had so many delicious-sounding options. Unlike many other creperies in Paris, they actually had unusual ingredients to include in your crepe. One gets sick quickly of the typical sugar/lemon/Nutella options.

​There were various types of fruits, ice creams, cakes, and even whipped creams (the regular Chantilly and the much more unusual and intriguing chocolat Chantilly) that you could combine and make come to life like a yummy Frankenstein. I took a very long time looking at the menu, fantasizing about the options, and wondering if it would be crazy to get two crepes, but I eventually went for Nutella, Oreo, strawberries, and Chantilly:

​Ugh. It was so delicious. But Princess Crepes is definitely a very modernized version of the classic crêperie, and served unique versions of the classic crêpe.

The crepe actually originated in France, specifically in the Breton region, which is located in the northwest of France. The word crêpe is French for “pancakes” and comes from the Latin crispus meaning “curled,” but they were originally called galettes, or flat cakes.

In the 12th century, buckwheat was introduced to Breton, whose rocky moors were perfect for its growth. When white flour became affordable in the 20th century, crepes were made with white flour instead of the gluten free buckwheat. 

Once cooked on large cast-iron hot plates heated over the fireplace, crepes are now made on electric crepe makers. The batter is spread with a long, thin, wooden tool called a rozel and flipped with a spatula. In Breton, they are often served with cider.

Crepes are such a big deal in France that there is even a national holiday based around them, on February 2nd. Well, it's not totally based around crepes-- rather, it's the Catholic holiday of Candlemas-- but crepes have become a major component of the celebration. Called Fête de la Chandeleur, Féte de la Lumière, or Jour des Crépes, this day is not only for eating a whole bunch of crepes but also for telling fortunes with them. It is a tradition to hold a coin in your dominant hand and a crepe pan in the other, then flip the crepe in the air. If you catch the crepe in the pan, your family will be prosperous for the rest of the year.

Basically, I already can’t wait for next February.
 
Bon appétit.
GU

​I have a confession to make. I don’t really like macarons.

I know what you’re thinking. Aren’t people who don’t like macarons not allowed through French customs? Well, I got through, despite my distaste for what is possibly the most iconic French pastry (at the moment).

I have a massive sweet tooth, and yet macarons are too sweet for me. They’re also often quite dense and rigid. I like my pastry light and fluffy. I like my pastry as close to whipped cream as possible. I just really love whipped cream.

But I couldn’t do The Daily Pastry in France without taste-testing some macarons.

​I don’t know what happened, I only meant to get three:

​Well, surprise, surprise, I still don’t especially like macarons. At least they have an interesting history to match their pretty façades. 

Macarons, believe or not, do not actually originate in France. Rather, they were introduced in Italy, by the chef of Catherine de Medici in 1533.  The word macaron is derived from the Italian macarone, maccarone, or maccherone, the word for meringue. This was around the time of her marriage to the Duc d’Orleans who later became king of France as Henry II in 1547. 

Of course, the story is not really that clear-cut. Apparently, macarons have been produced in Venetian monasteries since the 8th century AD. There’s a legend that Catherine de Medici brought chefs from this area to France to recreate childhood favorites and alleviate her homesickness for Italy. An additional history starts in Nancy during the French Revolution, when two Carmelite nuns seeking asylum baked and sold macarons to pay for their housing. They were known as the “Macaron Sisters.”

At first, macarons did not have the double-decker structure that we now know them for. Rather, they were fairly simple cookies, made of almond powder, sugar, and egg whites. It wasn’t until the 20th century that macarons started to look as they are now, when Pierre Desfontaines, Ladurée royalty, had the idea to fill them with a chocolate panache to stick the cookies together.

Though I don’t understand it, macarons are the best-selling cookie in French patisseries. They’re also extremely popular in the United States, with macaron kiosks popping up in malls everywhere. But as for me, I’ll stick to les Merveilleux if I’m going to eat meringue.  
 
Bon appétit.
GU

Today, France surprised me.

After nearly three weeks of non-stop pastry eating and researching, I’m sort of like an expert. I admit that sounds pretty conceited, considering the lack of culinary school.

But actually, I am a little bit: I can now identify almost every pastry in a patisserie, I know an unhealthy (literally, unhealthy) amount about the history and recipes of each for someone who isn’t even a baker, and I’ve taste-tested enough flavors to be qualified for a position in quality control at any boulangerie.

So when, while walking through the Marais district in Paris’s fourth arrondissement, I saw something I’ve never seen before in a shop window, I dropped everything and went in to find out what the mysterious pastry could possibly be.

The young girl who helped me was, thankfully, charmed by my enthusiasm and poor French. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?!” (What is that?) I basically shouted it at her. She explained that the lovely little mounds were two meringues, sandwiched together with cream, coated in the cream, and then dipped into chocolate shavings, cookies crumbles, or other delectable goodies.

Now, if you’ve been following The Daily Pastry, you will know that I had a bad experience early on in the month with meringue. I believe I said that the experience is what I imagine eating a fossil is like. But I’m all about redemption, and I wanted to see if I just caught meringue on a bad day last time.

And I really must have. The meringue in the Merveilleux was soft and tender, with the tiniest amount of chewiness. They seriously melted in my mouth. Add that to the amazing whipped cream they were completely covered in, and I will never say a bad word about meringue again. 

​When presented with this, it’s easy to get over a bad meringue experience:

​To be real with you right now, I liked these so much I came back later the same day to try the other flavors. And, hilariously, the same sweet girl helped me both times; instead of saying “au revoir” (goodbye), by my second visit she was saying “à bientot” (see you soon). That really happened. I became a regular at a Parisian bakery in a few hours. That is a new record, even for me.

If you don’t believe that something can be that good, listen to this: they are called merveilleux cakes. As in, the French word for “marvelous.” I am not exaggerating here. Believe me, it's not easy to get a compliment from the French. 

These small cakes originated in Belgium, soon becoming very popular in France (but not yet in the United States—I think I may have found my life’s purpose in spreading them across the states).  The French confectioner Frédéric Vaucamps developed his own version, and it was his patisserie that I stumbled upon in Le Marais!

Vaucamps named each different flavor combination in the style of the original title. For example, the Impensable (unthinkable) cakes are coffee, the Excentrique (eccentric) cakes are cherry, and the Magnifique (magnificent) cakes are praline.

My favorite was the Incroyable, which included the traditional meringues, speculoos whipped cream, and white chocolate shavings. Vaucamps chose the name Incroyable to go along with Merveilleux because of, surprisingly, a fashion trend in France in the late 18th century.

During the French Directory period, which lasted from 1795-1799, directly after the horrendous Reign of Terror, survivors of the French Revolution took a new interest in luxury, decadence, and silliness. They held balls and started fashion trends that were exaggerated and indulgent. The men of this fashionable aristocratic subculture were called the Incroyables, and the women were called the Merveilleuses.

Interestingly, some members of the subculture eliminated the “r” in both words to remove any possible affiliation with “révolution.”

The fashion itself was modeled after that of the ancient Greeks and Romans, although with a highly bizarre twist. The dresses and tunics worn during this period were made of transparent linen and gauze, material so sheer that the fashion was nicknamed “woven air.” Dresses were tight and revealing; wigs were worn in blonde, black, blue, and green. Men adopted lisps and hunchbacks. Why? I don’t know. But it sounds very Hunger Games/Capitol and I love it.

Similarly mysterious, Incroyable was also the French nickname for yo-yos in the 18th century.

In the past, whenever someone asked me where I would like to go if I could time travel to the past, I really didn’t know what to say. Now, I am fairly certain. I am going to France in the 18th century, where I will eat copious amounts of Merveilleux cakes, wear green wigs and gladiator sandals, and play with yo-yos.
 
Bon appétit.
GU

During my first month in France, it rained nearly every day. That is not an exaggeration. Even me, a self-described rain-lover, grew tired of the weather. Instead of hiding in my room, or in warm boulangeries (which is what I really wanted to do), I documented the rain in such a way that makes it look as though I could've been in the rain anywhere, and not in a special place during a special time. Oh, the banality of human existence. 

Also, just saying, YouTube offered to stabilize my video (apparently it looked shaky-- who do you think you are, YouTube, Roger Ebert?) and I declined because I am stronger than that.

Happy raining.
GU

​A strange woman who I did not previously know granted me permission to live in her home and eat breakfast and dinner with her for a month. Though she will be unable to read it (foiled by the language barrier once again), this thank you note is to her.

It’s been weird, mère d’accueil. It really has. I am genuinely not sure if our differences were cultural or personal. Since I prepared for cultural differences, and I was wholly unprepared for you, I’m going to assume that your quirks were just your special, particular brand and not those of French people in general.

Not that our differences ever resulted in actual tension, beyond me complaining on occasion to my mom on the phone at fifty cents per minute.

The month started off on a high note, or rather a very polite note. I remember the first thing I said to you in French: “Je suis désolée, mais je suis timide.” (I’m sorry, but I’m shy.) Why that seemed like the right introduction to make, I don’t know. It should’ve been, I’m sorry, I don’t know enough adjectives to be able to aptly describe myself in French.

Nevertheless, you replied epically: “Pas avec moi!” (Not with me!) We truly bonded amidst the ensuing laughter. It was raining that afternoon, I remember. It rained every single day after as well.

However, as what tends to happen with anyone you live with, the emotional significance and intimacy of our moment of bonding soon faded into nothing.

First of all, I was required to constantly wear a pair of slippers, which you so graciously provided. Any time I was barefoot, or wore socks, around the apartment, you said, “tes chaussures, merci beaucoup,” and unnecessarily sternly, considering I had no idea why any other footwear was forbidden around the apartment, and I wasn’t barefoot or socked to sabotage the intentions of these mysterious rules.

I ate everything that was put on my plate. I force-fed myself smoked salmon, merely because that was what you offered me. I’m not afraid to tell you now, mère d’accueil. I freaking hate smoked salmon.

Oh, and the shower—I have never met anyone more particular about what goes on in their shower while others are using it. It was a daily struggle to determine the shower schedule. You’re too loud to take a shower after nine, if after dinner go quickly!; you take too long, cut the water when shampooing!; they turned off the water in the whole building, but I’m not going to tell you until you’re already in there and both the water and the power go off, making the windowless salle de bain in which you were mid-shower pitch black!

But the greatest challenge was the house key. Yes, it took me a little over a week to be able to let myself in and out of the apartment. I don’t know whose fault that one is. Even you must admit that it is a complicated procedure: insert the key, lift up the handle, turn once to the right, three times to the left, hear a “click,” turn it again to the right, put down the handle, all the way, remove the key, and voilà. Oh, and you have to do the opposite to lock the door, as well (I definitely left the apartment open by accident once for a full day).

The first few nights you were gentle and tolerant about the key. You could hear me clanking and clicking and moving the handle around from the inside of the apartment. I am grateful not only that you happened to be at the apartment at those dire times of need, but also that you opened the door for me. I would’ve been stuck in the hallway for eternity, I’m fairly certain.

But there was one night that we have not discussed since it happened. As I am leaving tomorrow, it is time we clear the air on a specific Key Crisis.

I was returning home a little bit late that night. I was out with friends, we were enjoying each other’s company and the night; besides, I didn’t have a curfew. I’m an adult. An adult who just cannot figure out an ancient key and lock system at one in the morning, who accidentally wakes up an older, irritable French lady, a French lady who keeps several auxiliary pairs of slippers for any guests who visit her.

I was, of course, extremely apologetic (in French, and in English; I tend to revert back to English when I’m nervous). I would’ve slept in the hallway that night. I didn’t want to wake you. But wake you I did. You were only a little agitated, but your agitation is not what bothered me about this particular instance. Rather, it was the fact that you were not wearing pants.
Okay, I get it, you were sleeping. It was late. But you weren’t just not wearing pants. You weren’t wearing anything below the waist.

You were modest at first, but don’t think I didn’t notice that you were stretching and holding your white t-shirt over your literal crotch. I noticed. I would’ve left it at that if we had just immediately parted ways for the night with a polite though tense “bonne nuit.” But you insisted on showing me, possibly for the sixth time, how to work the key. This required you to turn around.

This required you to turn around.

I saw your pale elderly French woman butt.

And I had to keep it there, in my personal bubble, in my line of sight, right before me, until you finished explaining the key.

And then I went back to my room, sat on my bed, and wondered why I just can’t have one normal day. Just one normal day that a normal twenty-year old on her normal study abroad would experience. But, no. I had to see your butt.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. And only in the first week, too. Mère d’accueil, that’s just uncool. The last week, maybe; the last night, even more acceptable. Then, I would’ve been going home with a fresh, funny experience and a good story to tell my parents when they picked me up at the airport, without the horror of seeing you, the near-stranger whose butt I had seen up close, every day and night for the next three weeks.

Well, it’s out there now. I’ve said it. I’ve officially said everything that I’ve been thinking when that memory pops into my brain like a terrifying, French Jack-in-the-Box.

But this is a thank you note, and I do have a lot to thank you for. Thank you for cooking for me, even if I didn’t particularly enjoy it. Thank you for tidying up my room that one day, when you lined up all of my shoes so sweetly. Thank you for not waking me up that one morning, even though I was missing class (we both knew I needed it). Thank you for dealing with me, because I’m not exactly the best roommate either. And mostly, thank you for being patient when I said the word wrong, or didn’t know the vocabulary. I was never afraid to go out on a French limb with you, and that lack of inhibition whenever I came back to your apartment truly helped me improve.

Merci beaucoup.
GU

In my research, I have found nothing about the Extra Caramel pastry. I am forced to believe that the patisserie I went to that morning just made it up.

Oh, well. It’s still deserving of some lovin’, albeit some brief lovin’. Essentially pound cake slathered with mounds of caramel and some kind of round, hard, nut that I honestly didn’t like and picked off before I finished it, the Extra Caramel is yummy but nothing to write home about. And yet, here I am, virtually writing home about it.

​Go ahead and feast your eyes, though I recommend you save the actual feasting for some of the other pastries I’ve featured:

Bon appétit.
​GU

​Whoa.

I have eaten many pastries. I have experienced many new things. But no pastry was as unique an experience as the Ispahan.

And it has a unique history, too, since the Ispahan is the only Daily Pastry so far that was invented by a still-living pastry chef, Pierre Hermé, called by Vogue the modern “Picasso of Patissiers.”  

I truly loved my Ispahan, and I might even go so far as to say that it is my favorite pastry (until the next new pastry, anyway). As mine was not made by Hermé himself, or from the famous macaron brand Ladurée where they first appeared, there are some slight differences from the original recipe.

​The Ispahan is basically two raspberry (framboise in French) macarons, the size of tea saucers, fitted around cream custard and a crown of fresh raspberries. The custard was also framboise in my Ispahan, and it was decorated with a dainty blueberry (a major rarity in France). Originally, the custard was rose buttercream and there was also a lychee berry in the middle of the raspberries. The colors were magnificently beautiful and vivid, and I couldn’t stop taking different shots of it:

I have to be honest. Taking classes in France while simultaneously running this blog has not been that successful.

I feel terrible when I miss class, or when I don’t post for a while. Like, I feel physically and emotionally terrible. Yes, I am a perfectionist. I always have been. And I’m learning to recognize my boundaries, and not hate myself for sticking to ‘em. But sometimes it just sucks and I don’t do what I want to do or I judge myself for doing what I actually want to do and then I feel bad and then because I feel bad I don’t do what I want to do.

Along with being a perfectionist, I have a stubborn personality. It’s a winning combination that leaves me constantly in stalemates with myself. This past week, I’ve been at a definite impasse. I don’t feel well. Class can be quite boring. I’m tired of this same old city. I feel stuck. And because of all that, I don’t have the energy or willpower to change the situation, and potentially not feel those draining, damaging thoughts.

I’ve been in this exact same impasse before, many, many times. I noticed it only after several of its cycles. Admittedly, I have been noticing it for a long time without doing anything about it. Possibly I could end the standoff this time, or maybe not. As long as I don’t stop trying, I can deal with it.

Sometimes I do stop trying. (I’m trying to make myself realize that this not always a bad thing.) But I don’t want to, not right now.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, maybe this week’s (late) Weekly Playlist To might help. At the end of the day, at least we have these wildly eclectic thirty-minute mixes to rely on.

Find all of the tracks here.

1. The Tide Is High – Blondies Not giving up is literally in the lyrics here. Though this song seems to be about “getting the guy,” I replace “the guy” with all of my hopes, dreams, and goals and it really pumps me up.

The tide is high but I’m holding on
I’m gonna be your number one
I’m not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh, no

2.Bad Self Portraits – Lake Street Dive Sometimes, you gotta get resourceful. My mother always says, “If you can’t change something, change the way you think about it.” The narrator’s camera could’ve easily been a memory, gathering dust, of lost love, but instead she turned it into a tool for furthering her own skills and creativity.

I bought this camera
To take pictures of my love
Now that he’s gone
I don’t have anybody to take pictures of
Along some highway is pretty good subjects
I’m gonna make myself make use of this thing
I’m taking landscapes
I’m taking still lifes
I’m taking bad self portraits
Of a lonely woman

3. Closer – Chic Gamine The more I think about it, the more I think that it’s actually terribly difficult to completely give up. Truly giving up on something you care about requires stripping away so much of what you are. I guess there’s a giving-up-spectrum. Taking a break isn’t giving up; that would fall on one side of spectrum. Forgetting your heart, however—that would fall on the opposite side.

And the moon rise and the sun still sets
But don’t forget your heart here
Don’t forget your heart here

4. One More Time With Feeling – Regina Spektor As someone who often forgets to breathe in moments of great tension, or even just moments of boredom, or happiness, or like at any time really, the idea that breathing is just a rhythm is quite comforting. As readers already know, I’m not all about meditation, but slow, measured breathing is a great way to calm down and get perspective.

Hold on
One more time with feeling
Try it again
Breathing’s just a rhythm
Say it in your mind
Until you know that the words are right

5. They Can’t Take That Away From Me – Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong I just really love this song. It’s one of those “Forever Favorites,” if you know what I mean. And also, no, they can’t take anything away from me. In fact, screw they.

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No, they can’t take that away from me
The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No, no, they can’t take that away from me

6. Don’t Dream It’s Over – Sixpence None The Richer This song displays another case of defiance against the mysterious but oppressive they.

Hey now, hey now
Don’t dream it’s over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know that they won’t win

7. Everybody Plays the Fool – The Main Ingredient This song has so many practical uses. Failed a test? Everybody plays the fool, sometimes. Heartbroken? Everybody plays the fool, sometimes. Dropped a bottle of Chanel perfume on the floor where it shattered into a million pieces in the middle of a fancy French perfume store? Everybody plays the fool, sometimes.

Everybody plays the fool, sometimes
They use your heart just like a tool
Listen, baby, it may be factual, may be cruel
I ain’t lyin’, everybody plays the fool

8. Put Your Records On – Corinne Bailey Rae This classic speaks for itself.

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song
You go ahead, let your hair down
Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams,
Just go ahead, let your hair down
You’re gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow

9. Extraordinary Machine – Fiona Apple I love the idea of making the most out of utter crap. If only I had been able to think this way in the middle school/high school era.

If there was a better way to go
Then it would find me
I can’t help if the road
Just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me, or treat me mean
I’ll make the most of it
I’m an extraordinary machine

Again, the full mix can be found here for not-giving-up vibes.

Happy hanging in there.
GU

​The latest Daily Pastry might be a sign that I should start exercising, tout de suite.

The Paris-Brest was created to honor the Paris-Brest-Paris bicycle race. It is made of choux pastry (the same pâte à choux perfected by Carême and used for éclairs, the Religieuse, and several others) and a hazelnut and almond mousseline cream called praliné.

​Personally, it was a bit too nutty for me (pot calling the kettle black over here). But it is a beautiful pastry, with an unusual background that I’m excited to tell you about but never reproduce myself:

​In 1910, pastry chef Louis Durand was commissioned to create the Paris-Brest, in commemoration of the Paris-Brest-Paris route. The circular pastries were meant to resemble a bicycle’s wheel, and Durand generally succeeded in that regard.

Originally, the Paris-Brest-Paris (called PBP by those in the know) was a 1200-kilometer bicycle race from Paris to Brest and back again to Paris. For those of us who are not familiar with the metric system, that’s about 746 miles. For those of us who are not familiar with measuring distance, that’s a lot.

The PBP is one of the oldest bicycling events to still endure, though in a different form. The last time the PBP was held as a race was in 1951; it was most recently held, though not as a race, in August of 2015. The first victor of the Paris-Brest race was Charles Terront, who beat runner-up Jiel-Laval because the latter slept during the third night of the race. Terront finished the course in seventy-one hours and twenty-two minutes. Interestingly, both contestants suffered flat tires during the race that took over an hour to repair (mutual sabotage perhaps?).

Of course, there’s a weird little fact about the 1891 race that I obviously had to share. The most unusual entrant to the premier PBP race was a petrol-powered Peugeot Type 3 Quadricycle, an early French automobile, operated by Auguste Driot and Louis Rigoulot. Hilariously, by the time that Doriot and Rigoulot reached Brest, Terront and Laval had already finished the race. Despite having an internal combustion engine, the first model to be mass produced by French car brand Peugeot couldn’t even compete with man-powered bicycles.

I’m going to stick to eating, and not bicycling, but it’s still a fun story. Only the French would think of a decadent pastry to commemorate serious atheleticism.

Bon appétit.
GU

​Today, we’re getting fancy with our desserts.

The Religieuse consists of two choux pastries (remember choux from yesterday’s daily pastry, the éclair?) of different sizes (big on bottom, small on top, like a delicious snowman) filled with custard, iced with ganache, and joined together by buttercream. Sometimes the icing is piped to look like ruffles, or any other crazy edible design that the bakers come up with.

The Religieuse literally translates to “nun” in French. Apparently, it got its name because it looks like a nun’s habit. It doesn’t, really. But that’s what all my sources say.

​They’re often chocolate or coffee flavored, but mine was vanilla on the bottom and raspberry on top. And, mmm, it was good. My Religieuse got smooshed in transport, and I didn’t get a photo when it was sitting pretty in the bakery case. But here’s an example of some particularly beautiful ones, from the very celebrated and bon French patisserie Laudrée:

​Like all pastries seem to, the Religieuse has a complicated history. While the Religieuse in its current iteration found its origins in the mid-nineteenth century, the pastry dough used to make it actually has much deeper roots.

The batter was first created in 1540 by Panterelli, the Italian chef of the Florentine queen of France, Catherine de Medici (whose château I visited recently and will make a separate post about later). This batter evolved over decades, going from pâte à Panterelli to pâte à Popelin (the name change is because the batter was then used to make Popelins, which were allegedly little buns shaped like women’s breasts—oh, France).

Finally, it was our dear friend Marie-Antoine Carême who last improved the technique, and bakers still use his iteration of the recipe today. And it was Carême’s recipe that the Parisian pâtissier Frascati would use to invent the Religieuse in 1855.

I didn’t think it would be possible, but I’m getting a little sick of sugar, especially after the Religieuse, which is unbelievably large and sugary. I will, however, take one for the team and continue trying a new French pastry daily. It will be hard. But I will prevail.  
 
Bon appétit.
GU 

Lately, it’s almost as though the universe doesn’t care about my individual comfort level like at all.

(It doesn’t. Like at all.)

I’ve been living in a new house, with different people, in an unfamiliar city, speaking a foreign tongue, for two weeks now. It gets easier, but only very slowly. Forcing heightened comfort only leaves you worse off: more unsure, more frustrated, and more lonely. No matter how much I study my French, my mind will always blank on me for a moment at restaurants; no matter how much I learn the streets and monuments, my feet will always lead me to a new place. This doesn’t mean that I should stop trying to be at home here, but maybe I should think about it differently.

This thirty-minute playlist is intended to help ease the transition and reveal the calming simplicity of life outside of your comfort zone. After all, you have to get a little lost in the first place to ever find your way. And I have gotten lost in this French city so many times, I must be getting close.
 
Take a listen here.   

1.Simple & Sober – Mike + Ruthy Mike + Ruthy are a lovely husband-and-wife duo from the New York area. In this song, Ruthy sings the sweet sound of acceptance, of viewing the hard work required to be truly happy with positive willingness instead of resigned reluctance.
 
Simple and sober
I’ve gotten over
Screaming and screeching wheels
I’m keeping my own nose to the grindstone
I like the way it feels
 
2.Learn How to Fall – Paul Simon Paul Simon has this incredible ability to meld poetry with actual depth and musicality in a way that never seems clichéd. Take Learn How to Fall, for example: if it weren’t in Simon’s voice, I would half expect these lyrics to be found on a Hallmark card. And I wouldn’t allow them to move me so profoundly, either.  
 
You got to drift in the breeze
Before you set your sails
It’s an occupation where the wind prevails
Before you set your sails
Drift in the breeze
 
3.Love Will Find Me – Little Jackie This is the second Little Jackie song I have put on a Weekly Playlist To, and it will probably not be the last (if we’re all that lucky). I agonize over “starting my real life!!!” all the time. Having a stable career, finding a life partner, achieving happiness… not only do those things not equate to a “real life,” they’re all part of a long process that can wait for a while yet. My mind is so much more at peace when I remember that these things will find me, eventually.  
 
My life thus far has been held together by band-aids and safety pins
Nothing quite fits but I’m still trying to squeeze my body into it
I’ve been frontin’, I’ve been wanting someone who fits me effortlessly
With ease and room to spare, ‘cause I’ve endured some wear and tear
With all these meaningless love affairs, fake smiles and dishonest laughter
Fast forward to the morning after, I’m all dolled up looking like a disaster
I just want to wash off the lipstick, take off the stilettos
Play my music and get with my own flow
And love will find me eventually
 
4.Everybody’s Talkin’ – Harry Nilsson I often feel like a plankton, floating amongst crowds and voices, no agency in my own movements, reacting and responding to things that other people have done and said. I’ve always interpreted this song as someone tuning out those external influences and going where they feel they belong, regardless of who talks, stops, or stares.   
 
I’m going where the sun keeps shining
Through the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes
Backing off of the north east wind,
Sailing on a summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone
 
5.The Rainbow Connection – Kermit the Frog Fair warning: for some reason, this song is a bit of a tearjerker. Or that might just be me. One day, those of us who always try to find the silver lining, who have imagined the fantasies and tried to create them but maybe failed once or twice—we will reach our hands out to a rainbow and feel something solid for the first time.  
 
Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide
So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it
I know they’re wrong, wait and see
Someday we’ll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers, and me
 
6.Chinese Translation – M. Ward Something about the cyclical nature of this song is both a source of stress and a relief. A source of stress, because everyone has asked these same hard questions; and a relief, because everyone has asked these same hard questions.
 
And I said, what do you do with the pieces of a broken heart?
And how can a man like me remain in the light?
And if life is really as short as they say
Then why is the night so long?
And then the sun went down
And he played for me this song
 
7.Come Rain Or Come Shine – Ray Charles I’m with you, dear (though few) readers. Come rain or come shine.
 
Days may be cloudy or sunny
We’re in or we’re out of the money
But I’m with you always
I’m with you rain or shine
 
8.You Can Close Your Eyes – James Taylor
 
So close your eyes, you can close your eyes, it’s all right
I don’t know no love songs, and I can’t sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I’m gone
It won’t be long before another day
We’re gonna have a good time
And no one’s gonna take that time away
You can stay as long as you like
 
9.Simple As This – Jake Bugg After reading a book called The Tao of Pooh, I became quite fascinated and simultaneously really convinced by Taoism, an ancient Chinese philosophy. There’s one Taoist concept that really resonated with me, called pu, a word that is translated to “the uncarved block.” The idea here is that something’s original essence, unfettered and unchanged, contains a natural power, a beauty which often trumps that of something more complicated. Often, once you strip away unnecessary elements and disregard what is actually unimportant, you will find the answers in the simplest form.
 
Tried liberation of my own free will
But it left me looking to get higher still.
Oh and the answer well who would have guessed
Could be something as simple as this
God knows how I could have missed
Something as simple as this
 
Again, this super zen mix can be found here.
 
Happy easy listenin’/livin’.
GU

​Remember Marie-Antoine Carême from the millefeuille? He is back and bigger than ever with today’s quintessential French pastry, the éclair.
            For such a traditional dessert, I found one that was fairly unusual. Flavored with spéculoos (that delicious Belgian cookie spread that’s become popular lately), the éclair that I literally scarfed down in less than a second was to die for. The shining glaze, smooth and delicious, the light, fluffy, sweet cream center found beneath the crisp pastry shell—this pastry is delicious in any flavor, classic or modern.
            Éclairs are marvelously regal looking, like the staffs of ancient kings, bejeweled and brilliant. Do I sound like a catalogue yet?

            I’m noticing a similarity amongst French pastries. No one knows where they came from.
            But they all seem to mention one particular name. You guessed it, Marie-Antoine Carême. In case you’re not caught up on Daily Pastry posts, Carême was essentially Guy Fieri hundreds of years before Guy Fieri was even born, and just as flamboyant.
            At the age of eight, Carême’s parents abandoned the young boy in Paris. This was during the height of the French Revolution, in 1974, when the climate of Paris was tumultuous. Years later, he was working in kitchens and chophouses to survive. Cooking became his passion, and he became a premier chef in the development of French grand cuisine.
              Carême’s popularity came with his invention of pièces montées, structurally elaborate and complicated pastries he used to decorate the window of his Parisian patisserie, Pâtisserie de la rue de la Paix. These creations were sometimes several feet high, always exquisite, and only ever made with edible ingredients like sugar, marzipan, and pastry. Even Napoleon, who believed desserts to be a waste of precious time, ordered custom pieces from Carême for special events.
            Food historians speculate that it was Carême who invented the éclair, though of course no one knows for sure. In the nineteenth century, éclairs were called “pain à la duchesse” or “petite duchesse.” They are made with choux dough, or pâté à choux, which is a very particular type of light pastry dough used to make a variety of pastries including profiteroles, beignets, quenelles, and éclairs, among many others. The word éclair translates to a “flash of lightning” because of how quickly they can be eaten—in a flash—and, interestingly, I would describe the feeling of biting into one as being hit by a flash of lightning. 

Bon appétit.
​-GU

​I was bound to not like one of the pastries I tried. I just didn’t think that it would happen so soon.
I would like to formally apologize to all of the people of France. I tried. I really did. I’m just not all about meringue.
Meringue is essentially whipped egg whites and sugar, with other ingredients added for different flavors and densities. Mine was coffee flavored, I think, but it didn’t taste much like coffee.
The meringues really appealed to me this morning, big and puffy and cloudlike, stacked on top of each other in a bakery case that I pass by everyday on my walk to school. They looked light and airy, and they were. They looked sweet, and they were. But they felt and tasted like that astronaut ice cream you can buy in the gift shops of science museums.
It was what I imagine eating a fossil is like. Gritty, stale, disintegrating in my hands. And it was huge. Not all meringues are as big as mine was, and for good reason. It was hard to get two bites in, let alone the dozens that I would need to finish that chalky, monstrous thing.
Of course, unlike the last two editions of Daily Pastry, I didn’t immediately run a train on the meringue and therefore got a picture of my own:

​ So who thought this was a good idea? The claim is that the meringue is actually of Swiss origin, invented in the village of Meringen, which is how it got its name, and then improved upon by the Italian chef named Gasparini. However, even Gasparini’s origins are debated, and the Oxford English Dictionary cites that the word “meringue” is French but still of unknown origin.
The word itself was first recorded in a cookbook in 1692 by a French chef called François Massialot. He served as chef de cuisine, or personal chef, to several historically significant figures. He wasn’t too humble about this, either. In the preface to one of his cookbooks, he describes himself as, “a cook who dares to qualify himself royal, and it is not without cause, for the meals which he describes… have all been served at court or in the house of princes, and of people of the first rank.
There are also examples of pastries extremely similar to meringue in early seventeenth century gastronomic literature, although they are referred to as “white biskit bread” and “pets” in these sources. In the Loire Valley of France, which happens to be where I am right now, they are still called “pets” because of their light fluffiness.
You won’t believe what a pet is though. I sure didn’t when I looked that one up in French Google Translate. For lack of a better word, pet in French means “fart.” So, yes. It is official. I have eaten a fart. And, no, I did not like it.

Bon appétit.
-GU

Today, a dream that I didn’t know I had was realized.
            I went to zumba. In France.
            Now, I know we don’t know each other too well (yet). So you may not know the extent of my passion for zumba. I will try to explain.
            I don’t enjoy meditation. Perhaps I haven’t done it enough, or done it well enough, to hit that “sweet spot” where meditation feels great and then I tell all my girlfriends about how much it’s changed my life at brunch the following Sunday. I tried guided meditation, with a Real Live Buddhist™, for several weeks. I chanted the chants, I sat in the Lotus position, and I drank a lot of herbal teas afterward. But I never got it.
            What I was trying to get with meditation, I got with zumba. Of course, I was self-conscious at first. The hybrid of cardio and club dancing could be embarrassing at times, and even difficult. My first zumba class, my butt just wouldn’t shake the way the instructor’s was. But as the class went on, my reservations melted away, along with the rest of my skin (this is a weird way to express that I was sweating, a lot).   
            After fifteen minutes of nonstop, energetic dancing, there comes a moment where you forget that there’s a mirror, reflecting your every incorrect move, that there’s people around you, probably dancing better. It was in the midst of zumba that I truly felt present, an enigmatic sensation that I had been trying to achieve since I read The Tao of Pooh in high school.
            There was nothing but me and the sounds around me, nothing but my body, my arms stretching as far as they could, my legs stomping with the beat, as fast or as slow as was necessary, my face hot and red but solid, real, beyond prettiness or ugliness, a body doing everything that it is able, music that is good because it is music and not because of who sings it or what they’re saying or whether or not you even like it.
            That’s how much I love zumba.
            So imagine my excitement when the opportunity to do zumba in France was presented to me. Of course, I immediately acquiesced to a Friday six-o-clock class; really, it didn’t matter where or when. Like all people who go to a new place for a long time, I had been experiencing the mild sting of homesickness, and I thought that some zumba mindfulness might be the remedy I needed.
            This afternoon, I met a friend and two bubbly fifteen-year-old French girls to walk to the local gym. The girls assured us that the gym was pas loin--not far—several times during the twenty-minute walk. They giggled and rambled on in rapid fire French. I didn’t know exactly what they were saying, but for the most part, I understood (most fifteen-year-old girls talk the same way, and often about the same things).
            Every time we passed a reflective surface, a shop window or some shiny metal framing, the girls would peek at their own image and adjust their hair or their clothes. Another thing that is universal amongst fifteen-year-old girls.
            A twenty-minute walk in France is not exactly pas loin, especially in the heat, but we made it to the gym at six exactly. We entered right into the studio from the front door. A short, muscular man with tattoos on his arms was standing at the front of the big room. “Le professeur,” whispered one of the girls.
            The class consisted of five high school girls, including our guides, and a gaggle of ladies I would describe as somewhere between middle-aged and elderly. I observed them for a moment, listening to them speak French so naturally, wondering if I would ever be able to talk like that.
            Class began when le professeur turned on a small radio. I wouldn’t say the music blasted from the speakers, but I could hear it. It was an American song I recognized, with English lyrics that I somehow knew. As usual, it took some time to warm up. But soon, I was there, not in a different country, not in the dark places that my head sometimes wants to go, not in the worries and the fantasies that plague me.     
            At the end of class, the instructor turned and spoke to me, fast and in French. I have no idea what he said to me, but it was maybe something like “do you understand what I’m saying?” At least, I hope that’s what it was, because I replied “un peu,” “a bit,” and all of the middle-aged ladies in the studio tittered.
            Un peu. That might be how much I ever understand. But when I’m able to strip life down to its barest, simplest form, even if I can only do that once in a while and with a lot of prior kvetching and effort, un peu is enough.
            Basically, I really recommend zumba.
 
Happy dancing.
-GU

For the following two weeks, while I am in France, I am going to try a new pastry. Every. Single. Day.
           In case you haven’t memorized your multiplication tables yet (don’t worry, I haven’t either), that’s fourteen pastries. Is that a lot? Honestly, I would be eating that many pastries—or more—anyway, so I might as well get something out of it besides an empty wallet and a gourmet French dessert baby kicking at my stomach.
           So what is culturally significant about fourteen variations of dark, rich, chocolate, flaky dough, and vanilla beans? I plan on finding out, one bite at a time.
​           ​Read the entire series here.

​Today, I was feeling hungry yet unadventurous, so I went with a classic favorite: the pain au chocolat, or, literally, chocolate bread. What could possibly ever be bad about that combination?
           ​The pain au chocolat is a staple across France. Some of mes amis even get them every morning in a tightly sealed plastic package, fresh from the factory and sold at your local Monoprix. A derivation of the stereotypical croissant, the pain au chocolat is a flaky, cuboid shaped (truly, it is cuboid shaped) piece of dough, similar to puff pastry, with one or two sticks of dark chocolate baked in the center. Here’s a photo of one, for your viewing pleasure (again, like the millefeuille, I would’ve used a photo of mine but I ate it too quickly):

​Though the croissant and the pain au chocolat seem as old as France itself, they are actually relatively modern baking innovations. The word “croissant” only made its way into the French dictionary in 1863.
            This type of pastry is called viennoiserie, and was introduced in the nineteenth century by August Zang, an Austrian officer, and Ernest Schwarzer, an Austrian aristocrat. Viennoiseries are baked goods made from yeast-leavened dough with added ingredients that separate them from puff pastry. The unlikely Austrian pair, even more unexpectedly, opened a Viennese bakery in Paris, which popularized croissants and pains aux chocolat.
            But I refuse to accept those very normal beginnings as the origin story of what is quickly becoming my preferred snack. So I dug further.
            And I found a couple of significantly more interesting stories, though I must admit they are basically myths at this point and their validity is widely disputed. Oh, whatever, they’re still fun!
            The earliest mentions of croissants dates to 1683, when the Ottoman Turks were sieging Vienna. According to the tale, a baker working late at night heard the Turks secretly entering the city and immediately alerted the military. The military was therefore able to collapse the tunnel the Turks were entering the city through, effectively saving Vienna. The baker then invented a crescent-moon shaped pastry, which was the Turks’ Islamic emblem, so that when Austrians bit into the pastry they would symbolically be destroying the Turks. Not terribly believable, but I like to suspend my disbelief when it comes to desserts.
            Another story cites Marie Antoinette, the Austrian Queen of France who famously never said, “Let them eat cake,” as the indirect creator of the croissant. The young Marie Antoinette was homesick for Austria, and therefore requested the royal bakers to replicate her favorite pastry from home. That favorite pastry is called the kripfel, and it is the same dessert that the Austrian pair spread from their Paris bakery.
            So, no one really knows where the croissant or the pain au chocolat came from, but no one really cares, either.
 
Bon appétit.
-GU 

​Yes, you read that right. For the following two weeks, while I am in France, I am going to try a new pastry. Every. Single. Day.
           In case you haven’t memorized your multiplication tables yet (don’t worry, I haven’t either), that’s fourteen pastries. Is that a lot? Honestly, I would be eating that many pastries—or more—anyway, so I might as well get something out of it besides an empty wallet and a gourmet French dessert baby kicking at my stomach.
           ​But the eating pastries aspect of this isn’t the challenge here, and I promise to never complain about that, as I do have some perspective on how lucky I am. Along with updating Girl Unaffiliated daily, another challenge will lie in finding what is culturally significant about dark, rich, chocolate, flaky dough, and vanilla beans. Well, fourteen variations of that, anyway. Or maybe that won’t be as hard as I thought.

​  Mille. A thousand. Feuille. Leaves.
            “A thousand leaves” sounds like a gardener’s recurring autumnal nightmare, but in actuality, it is so freaking delicious. Flaky and creamy, the millefeuille tastes like layers of crumbly, brittle crêpes mortared together with fresh whipped cream. If you’re not already drooling a little, this is what the typical millefeuille looks like (I would’ve taken a photo of mine, but I vacuum sucked it up too quickly):

​            So, now you understand my high praise a little more. But where did the millefeuille, or Napoleon, as it’s often called, come from? Who was the genius that thought of putting two things that were already delicious on their own together?
               Turns out, no one actually knows. The origins of the millefeuille are an utter mystery. The first mentions date as far back as seventeenth century France, when François Pierre de la Varenne recorded it in an early cook book. This chef and author had the very exciting-sounding job of “gastronomic chronicler. ” He was also the leading member of a group of French chefs who systematized French cuisine during the age of King Louis XIV (also known as the Sun King, for those of us who remember very little from high school world history).
            The Napoleon’s existence was not documented again for another century, by yet another significant figure in French gastronomy. Marie Antoine Carême was the pioneer of French haute cuisine, a luxurious and grandiose style of cooking adored by international royalty and the nouveau riche of Paris. Carême was the original celebrity chef, before Gordon Ramsay, Rachael Ray, and Guy Fieri. He referred to the millefeuille, in the eighteenth century called the gateau de mille feuilles (cake of a thousand leaves), an “ancient recipe.” His casual reference to potential prehistoric beginnings for the much-beloved Napoleon has caused great puzzlement ever since.
            Not even the country of origin is certain. The fact that it’s often called “Napoleon” seems like a big hint towards France being the source, but the name Napoleon is actually derived from the city of Naples in Italy, not the infamous nineteenth-century emperor. (Apparently, there was an early French association between the pastry and Naples, making is a napolitain pastry. Additionally, Napoleon the emperor didn’t really eat dessert.) There is also evidence that the millefeuille is imitative of the Hungarian caramelized dessert Szegedinertorte, but the only similarity they have is the layered form, not the ingredients.    
            The millefeuille that I deeply, emotionally, spiritually, physically devoured was fairly simple, consisting of several sheets of thin puff pastry and light layers of whipped cream between them, but they can be found with almonds, berries, chocolate, or any other array of yummy things. If you come across one in any of its various states, I definitely recommend trying it.
 
Bon appétit.
-GU 

Giverny sits on the right bank of the River Seine, fifty miles outside France's capital city of Paris. It is a modest place, small and sparsely populated. Having existed since neolithic times, there is much history to be found in the quiet, charming village, but it is most well known for the French painter Claude Monet's incredible garden and the exquisite work he accomplished there.
           According to art mythology, Monet saw the village from the window of a train and decided right then and there to live in Giverny. First he rented a house and some land, but in 1890 he could afford to buy it. He then immediately set out to design and plant the magnificent gardens that have become famous through his paintings. 
           When Monet first settled at the long, pink crushed brick house in Giverny, there was an apple orchard and a kitchen garden. Called the Clos Normand, this two and a half acre (or one hectare) walled garden immediately enamored Monet, with its organized cypress and spruce trees, its fairytale flowerbeds.
           Monet worked tirelessly to improve his Clos Normand, uprooting trees (including his wife, Alice's, beloved spruces, despite many arguments between them), installing metal arches, and replacing the apple trees with cherry and Japanese apricot trees. He planted nasturtiums, fragrant roses, daffodils, tulips, narcissus, iris, oriental poppies, peonies, and countless other flowers, coloring in the landscape as he would a canvas.
           Beyond the Clos Normand lies the Water Garden, which truly demonstrates Monet's expertise in both color and light. He created the Water Garden by diverting the river Epte, creating the pond that has become the centerpiece of Le Jardin d'Eau. Aligned perfectly in the center is the famous Japanese bridge, painted green by Monet's specific instruction instead of the traditional red, and framed by bamboos, ginkgos biloba, maple trees, Japanese peonies, white lilies, and weeping willows. Monet then planted nymphéas in the pond itself, later stating, "I love water, but I also love flowers. That’s why, once the pond was filled with water, I thought of embellishing it with flowers. I just took a catalogue and chose at random, that’s all."
            These gardens lie just beyond Monet's pink stucco house, which in itself is deserving of mention. The dining room is painted entirely yellow, and the kitchen entirely blue. The walls are decorated with beautiful Japanese prints, and shiny copper pots contrast against the blue French wall tile. 
           It was in Monet's kitchen where I first caught a glimpse of Katsushika Hokusai's The Great Wave, a woodblock print that has since become a great source of both creativity and tranquility.
           Over five hundred of Monet's paintings were inspired by Giverny and his personal gardens. Now a museum, his home in Giverny has been refurbished exactly to its original glory, from Monet's own designs and plans. It has never been more true that a person's home reflects his or her mindset and life. Looking at photographs of Giverny, and some of Monet's paintings, it is clear that his mindset was magic. 

Happy planting.
-GU

Contrary to popular belief, being a bitch is so not a bad thing.
            In this totally blah male-dominated society, it often feels as though you’re either perceived as the housewife, quiet and submissive, or the mega-bitch, bossy and unreasonable. For both of these ridiculous labels, you might even be called—ugh, cringe--crazy. Often in response to entirely rational, sensible behavior.
            No.
            No.
            I am done with all that. I’m done worrying; I’m done not being assertive for fear of seeming “rude.” I am taking charge, I am going for what I want, and I am going to enjoy it.
Therefore, I am happy to share with you this even-more-eclectic-than-usual thirty-minute track, full of songs to help you embrace your inner bitch from the voices of bad-ass bitches.

Listen to the playlist here!

1.Hard Out Here – Lily Allen This track gave us a line that, once it catches on, will truly mark the end of an era and the beginning of a better, wiser time: "grow a pair of tits." I will soon be making and distributing shirts to expedite to process.

There’s a glass ceiling to break, there’s money to make
And now it’s time to speed it up ‘cause I can’t move at this pace
Sometimes it’s hard to find the words to say
I’ll go ahead and say them anyway
Forget your balls and grow a pair of tits
It’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard out here for a bitch

2.Bitch – Meredith Brooks Womanhood is not black or white, like literally everything else in the universe.

I’m a bitch, I’m a mother, I’m a child, I’m a lover
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint, I do not feel ashamed
I’m your hell, I’m your dream, I’m nothing in between
You know you wouldn’t want it any other way
So take me as I am
This may mean you’ll have to be a stronger man

3.Feeling Myself – Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé I am a huge fan of whatever happens when these two get together. Grab a cool friend, eat some cheeseburgers, and just feel whoever the heck you are.

I stopped the world
Male or female, it make no difference
I stopped the world
World, stop.

Carry on

4.There She Goes – Sixpence None The Richer I like to listen to this song whenever I'm going somewhere because it's just one of those songs that makes you feel like you're in a movie. Like, yes, I do go there.

There she goes
There she goes again
Pulsing through my veings
And I just can’t contain
The feeling that remains

5.Confident – Demi Lovato Post-Disney Channel Demi Lovato is such a boss bitch. This song exemplifies so much of what I struggle with. I always think I need to check myself for fear of seeming narcissistic, and yet everyone praises confidence as the key to happiness. So, screw it. What's wrong with being confident? Nothing.

I used to hold my freak back
Now I’m letting go
I make my own choice
Bitch, I run this show
So leave the lights on
No, you can’t make me behave
So you say I’m complicated
That I must be out of my mind
But you’ve had my underrated
What’s wrong with being, what’s wrong with being, what’s wrong with being confident?

6.Ex’s & Oh’s – Elle King Though being a heartbreaker isn't necessarily a great thing, it's a lot better than depriving yourself of choices and what you want.

I get high, and I love to get low
So the hearts keep breaking and the heads just roll
You know that’s how the story goes
One, two, three they’re gonna run back to me
‘Cause I’m the best baby that they never gotta keep
One, two, three they’re gonna run back to me
They always wanna come but they never wanna leave

7.Little Red Wagon – Miranda Lambert This may not be the best song musically, lyrically, or morally, but whatever, it's fun.

Oh, heaven help me
I’ve been sowing wildflower seeds
And chasing tumbleweeds
But that’s just who I be
And you’re just trying to slow this rolling stone
But I’m on to you, baby
So guess what?
You can’t ride in my little red wagon

8.Boss Ass Bitch – Pretty Talking All Fades (PTAF) A classic.

I’m a boss ass bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch
Bitch, bitch, bitch
I’m a boss ass bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch
Bitch, bitch, bitch
I’m a boss ass bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch
Bitch, bitch, bitch
I’m a boss ass bitch

9.You’re Blasé – Peggy Lee Here's a more unusual choice. Yes, there were birches in the early 20th century.

You’re deep, just like a chasm
You’ve no enthusiasm
You’re tired and uninspired
You’re blasé
Your day is one of leisure
In which you search for pleasure
You’re bored when you’re adored
You’re blasé

Keep dancing to the beat of your own empowerment here.

Happy bitchin'.
​-GU