We all have those moments. Those moments when someone says something to you that makes your blood boil. That ruffles your feathers. Gets your knickers in a twist. Those moments when the shock of the pure misanthropy of this person's hateful blathering disarms your response mecanism momentarily. When you simply stare blankly back at them, hoping that someone or something will save you. A spilt drink, a riot, an earthquake. While waiting for Batman to appear today, I was simply able to mutter a quick "Really?" before ducking away as non-discreetly as possible to seek AssRay's help and protection.

For hours after, you replay the scene in your head, each time coming up with newer and wittier responses: some are funny, others guilt-ridden, others threatening, and the best ones simply mean, aiming to put the culprit into the same state of jaw-dropping shock that you were in.

I live in France, so it is very possible that I experience this more than others--the language and cultural barriers incapicitating my ability to be assertive as well as the simple fact that the French are, well, frank. And often not very careful to consider others' feelings.

Today, I was at a circumcision, which in itself is a bizarre and disturbing ritual in which you are given cloves in order to keep yourself from fainting. I refused to watch. Even considering the tradition and the anesthesia and the fact that it was a doctor performing the act, watching someone's genitals get mutilated is not exactly my cup of tea at 8:30 on a Sunday morning.

Eating an apple turnover and enjoying my coffee after the baby stopped bleeding and the prayers were said, I mentioned to one of the cousin's (who lives in London) that I myself will be going to London next week. When he asks why, AssRay blurted out that it is for the release of Harry Potter. I knew that this reason does not fly in France and so I laughingly explained that that is not the real reason, but a happy coincidence. AssRay quickly disappeared into the crowd and left me to defend myself. The group of self-conscious, conformist 20-somethings I find myself trapped amongst starts in on Harry Potter, mostly criticizing the French translation, which is ok. But one, the one who lives in London and has a girlfriend who looks like a young Aunt Petunia, starts simply saying "Harry Potter" in a sneering, mocking manner and then says; "He's popular with adults in the US and the UK because Americans and English people are so ridiculously childish."

"Really?"

Now, if this were I movie, I would yell cut at this point and add in the lines I came up with during the walk home. "If being childish means knowing to have fun, than yes, we are happily more childish than the French. But I hardly consider living with your parents until you are 25, when you finally find you first job and move into a studio that they own, criteria for maturity."

And it is precisely this ability to alter my personal history that keeps me writing.