26 September, 2016
These wall-chalkboards always exist in a fantasy land I think of as DreamEurope. You’re going to write farm-restaurant stuff on them in cursive, and your basket of fresh baguettes is obviously going to be right there, because you took your wicker basket to the fucking market, because this is DreamEurope. Your avocados are always in the imaginary stage between rock-hard and rotten, your berries never get moldy in the time it takes you to drive home from the grocery, and you always wash your dishes the day you use them, never going for weeks or even months eating hot dogs on paper plates because the thought of doing anything else makes your body feel so heavy you can’t move. The sun always shines, no one ever Brexits, and everyone speaks fluent English with a light French accent. I love DreamEurope.