In which I detail my time as an illegal alien in France

So today for lunch...or whatever you call a meal you eat at 4:30, I had bread and butter.  And I thought to myself, "no wonder the phrase 'it's my bread and butter' came about.  This is delicious."

Then I thought about how European I felt.  Then I wondered if just eating bread and butter would be something Europeans do.

I decided yes, it was definitely something Europeans do.

Then I thought about how I am definitely going to go to France ASAP, run away, disappear into the French countryside, and likely work in a patisserie under the assumed name "Simone."  Or perhaps I will just keep my name because it's pretty French anyway.

Then I will fall in love with the local boulanger named Guillaume, and though we will be poor because I am an illegal alien and he bakes bread for a living, we will be very happy.

Until, of course, the government discovers me.  At which point I will have to tell Guillaume of my real identity.  And he'll be all, "tu n'es pas Francaise?!"  (Which roughly translates to "wait, for real?  You're not French?!"

And I'll be like..."non." (Translation: Nope.)

At which point he will say, "mais tu as le meilleur accent francais!!!" (You have a bitchin' french accent.)

And I'll be all..."je sais, Guillaume.  Je sais."  (I know, right?!)

Then we will have a green card marriage, which will rapidly disintegrate after the french version of the po-po are off my trail, because really, neither myself nor Guillaume was built to be married.

I'll have to quit my job at the patisserie.  Seeing Guillaume will be way too awkward.  But the skills I've gleaned will help me to move to another small french village in the middle of the night and establish myself at another local business.

I will keep doing this until I am deported or dead.  Either way, whenever I eat bread and butter I will think of my time as an illegal alien in France.

Fin.