C'est La Vie

I've been saying that a lot lately because, lately, there hasn't been much else to say.

Lost job.
Car broke down.
Partner dumped you.
Gained weight.
Dog ran away.
Had to get an abortion.

I don't know...C'est la vie.

Maybe I simply don't understand the nuances of the French language, but do they have a phrase for "life sucks big fat monkey balls" or is it just "such is life?"

Maybe the French, despite their pouts and sparkling water and wine and politically incorrect foie gras, just don't complain like we do?

Maybe I have too much to complain about that isn't really there.

I want to be in Europe again laughing at nonsensical art at the Tate, eating duck confit in front of the tacky Eiffel Tower strobes, breezing through the Irish Times crossword puzzle with Crazy Steve, drinking sangrias on las Ramblas with a gorilla, chasing a water ferry in Venice, skipping in freeze-frame in front of the Coliseum, and throwing up in a corner of Edinburgh Castle and drinking Speyside malt afterwards just to fall asleep on a train stalled somewhere in the highlands with a copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime in my hands.

-L