Je parle toute seule (2016) - full transcript

He thrusts his fists against the post
and still insists he sees the ghosts.

Peter picked a peck of pickled peppers.
Pickled peppers.

She sells seashells by the seashore.

Pickled peppers.

Ladies and gentlemen,
please welcome Blanche Gardin.

I TALK TO MYSELF

Thank you.

It’s good to be here.

No, let’s be honest.
No one wants to be stuck

in a dark theater
on a lovely spring weekend.

I know exactly what happened.
You bought tickets, what, three weeks ago?



Then this morning, you saw the weather.

“Oh, fuck. What a drag,
we have to go to the theater tonight.”

I’m quite aware
that that’s how it happened.

So, yes, I also know what I’m missing.

On top of that I’m wearing panty hose.

Let’s try to get through this
together, okay?

I’m glad you’re here. I am.

Thanks for coming
and in such large numbers.

But why should I thank you for that?

Individually, none of you can claim
credit for the full house.

Each of you came for selfish reasons.

You thought, “This world makes me sick,

but I’ll go see a comedy show
instead of hanging myself.”

That’s what you thought.



But your aim wasn’t to fill the theater,

so get over yourself.

If anyone should be thanked
for this full house,

it’s the God of Full Houses.

He probably watches out
for poker players too.

But…

your aim wasn’t for the house to be full.

Still, it’s packed. Packed.

And that’s great.

That’s the magic of collective action.

People’s individual, selfish actions

come together to form
a new social phenomenon

of a character and effect
totally different from the original aim.

Right?

It’s the only way to explain
Cyril Hanouna’s fame.

In his case, it’s not really magic,

more like a curse.

I find the success
of crappy TV shows fascinating.

It’s all due to people who say,

“I only watch it to see how crappy it is.”

Are a lot of you doing that?
It’s problematic.

TV ratings don’t take into account
that you’re watching it ironically.

Or maybe you’re interested in shit?
You’re a shitologist?

At restaurants,
do you ask what’s disgusting?

Do you lick your lips reading the menu,

saying,
“Hmm, what do I want to shit tomorrow?”

Is that your thing?

It’s fascinating how
we trick our brains into watching TV.

Watching crappy TV ironically
doesn’t make you less stupid.

It makes you just as stupid.

But we don’t realize we’re getting stupid.
It’s an existential tragedy.

Tons of my friends have become stupid
without realizing it.

Seriously. I even tell them,
“Michel, you’ve become stupid.”

“Really? I don’t think so.”
“Yes, you’re stupid now.”

We don’t see ourselves becoming stupid.

We don’t see it because the brain
is hidden away inside the skull.

We don’t see it change.

Unlike fat. If you eat junk every day, you
see yourself getting fat in the mirror,

but not stupid.

You don’t get a shock
looking in the bathroom mirror:

“Holy shit! I’m becoming totally stupid!

I must stop watching Hanouna.

Tonight, I swear I’ll watch Arte!

Even if I beg, we’re watching Arte!”

That’s not how it works.

Anyway, thanks for coming tonight,

as individuals in great numbers.

It fills me with joy.

Seriously, it does.

It won’t make up for my parents
never saying they loved me, but it’s nice.

It’s nice to get recognition
for one’s work.

It’s very important.
It’s what keeps us going.

But it’d be dishonest to claim
that your laughter and applause tonight

will keep me from eating two pints
of ice cream and then puking it back up.

It won’t fill the void.

Ice cream is easy to barf
because it’s already liquid.

It comes right back up.

Just a tip for any bulimics out there.

There are always a few

in Europe.

But I don’t make myself throw up anymore.
I’ve stopped because I’m an adult

and I’ve realized
it’s absurd to make yourself puke

when people are starving.

I’ve never found a practical way
to send my vomit to Africa,

so I stopped making myself vomit.

I’m still depressive,
but now I have a fat ass!

That’s not a bad thing.

It’s not bad to have a fat ass
when you’re depressive

because it gives you an aim in life:
to lose weight.

It’s why you get up in the morning.

When they have an aim,
people commit suicide less.

I commit suicide much less than before.

It’s also due to the events
of these past few years:

jihadism, “Pray for Paris,”

“Pray for” all the capitals
that have been attacked.

Spiritually, I’m a bit lost,

so I think suicide might be
a risky proposition.

In itself,
suicide is a marvelous invention.

When you can’t handle it

and you think, “It seems that existence
is something that wasn’t made for me,”

you think, “At least if it gets
really bad, suicide is an option.”

It’s a very comforting idea.

But if you have doubts spiritually,
then it’s no longer comforting

because you think…

Just imagine, you kill yourself,

and boom, there’s life after death?

“This shit, again?”

That wasn’t the point.

You’d better enjoy life
if you commit suicide

because you might
be stuck with it forever.

That’s why I’m terrified of eternal life.

Everyone’s working on it.
It’s the latest project.

They want to eradicate death.

Really. I’m not kidding.

Google invests billions
in research to prevent death.

Mark Zuckerberg, Hallowed be His Name,

invests a large part of his fortune
on eternal life research.

It’s fascinating.

Three-quarters of the planet have the
life expectancy of a leukemic Labrador,

but in Silicon Valley they’re saying,
“It sucks to die of cancer at 85.”

It’s fascinating.

We might be on the brink
of wiping out death.

It freaks me out. Totally.

I’m terrified my mother will find out.

Maybe not everyone should know,
just a chosen group.

No, it’d be awful.

We can’t wipe out death. We mustn’t.

Death is important, for life.
No, it’s important.

It’s only because
we know it will eventually end

that we’re able to stand our lives.

If we had to get up every morning
knowing all this shit would never end,

we’d want to off ourselves
and we wouldn’t be able to.

We need to keep death. It’s important.

Call me conservative,
but there are some things we should keep.

More generally, I think
we should be careful with progress.

Seriously. Yes, that’s what I said,
and I stand by it.

It’s getting absurd.

Rich people die of cancer
and have their bodies frozen. It’s normal.

With a Post-it on the freezer:

“Microwave me when we’re less stupid.”
People do this now.

Franck Ribéry bought a cryogenic chamber.

Everybody know what that is?

Ribéry, the soccer player?

This guy thinks he’ll be
on the “team of the future.”

We need to calm down
and not lose our heads.

I understand the desire
to live in a time other than this one,

which isn’t very pleasant.

Myself, I wish I’d been born
in another time.

In another person too.

I’m not referring to my mother this time,

but myself.

Poor woman.

I ruined her pussy and then her life.

I’m talking about me.

I’d like to have been born
in someone else.

Given the choice,
I’d be born in Leonardo DiCaprio.

I’d have loved that.

Being a great actor
with ecological convictions,

fucking whores on yachts,
I’d have loved that.

It’d have been logical
because Leonardo DiCaprio

is the anagram of Blanche Gardin.

Actually, it’s not.

Some letters are missing.

Anagrams are tough.

They take me forever.

However, “carpe diem” is an anagram
for “Crap die me.”

Trust me, I worked it out myself.

Carpe diem.

It’s all the rage. Carpe diem.

“You must profit from the moment.”

Not always easy.

I’ve tried to profit from the moment,

seize the days, smell the roses, all that,

but it’s not easy
when nothing ever happens.

Nothing happens in my life anymore.

My private life is an activity wasteland.
Nothing happens.

I’m 40. I’ve been single for four years.

Nothing happens anymore.

The years go by, and nothing new happens.

Well, I wear opera-length necklaces now.

That’s new in 2017. I wear long necklaces.

I figure, if I can’t get fucked,
why not look like an intellectual?

At least it’s a look.

Not a great look,
but it’s something people can recognize.

They think, “Look, an intellectual.”

That’s good. I exist.

I think the next step is
glasses on a chain.

I feel it coming.

But I don’t mind.
I find them quite touching, as an object.

Glasses on a chain. It’s touching.

It’s a public sign of extreme solitude.

Glasses on a chain…

It’s more a sign
of the management of that solitude.

It’s the sign of a woman
who’s totally alone and half blind

who one day misplaced her glasses
in her apartment

and spent three days in total panic

trying to find her way out and failing.

She thought, “I’ll die here.
They’ll find me by the smell.

The firemen will shovel up my remains
in three weeks.”

She was curled up in her hallway,
moaning, “I’m done for,”

when in a final effort to survive,
she gropes around for the cat’s dish

to eat something, one last time,

and miraculously, finds her glasses.

She thinks, “I’d better chain
these glasses to my body.

I want to live!” That’s what she said.

The first version was probably improvised
out of kitchen twine and packing tape.

It’s their burning will to live
that interests me.

It’s true.

I agree it’s not immediately obvious,

because usually they work in publishing
and wear brown cardigans,

but deep inside they have a burning will
to live that really fascinates me.

It’s a real message of hope for us,
for women in our 40s. Really.

It’s quite a hurdle, turning 40.
Quite a hurdle.

It’s called the “Age of Acceptance.”

I’m not sure I understand.

Acceptance of what?

That we have 40 years left,
half our life is gone?

That now we wear European size 40?

All the planets are in alignment.

Planet 40.

Turning 40…

it’s no cliché, things are different.

When you tell people you’re 40,

they say, “Oh, 40 isn’t old.”

No, 40 isn’t old,

but it’s old all at once.
That’s the problem.

Suddenly, aging is accelerated.

We start aging when we’re born, of course,
but it’s a slow, gradual process.

We don’t see ourselves age.
But at 40, that suddenly changes.

I see it with my body. I wore a vintage
dress and on me, it’s just a dress.

I can see something has happened.

We’ve aged all at once.

It’s even worse for women,

because women are forced
to accept the totally unfair law

that says that men my age,
usually fair game for me,

can suddenly aspire
to someone much fresher.

It’s a law we accept quite naturally,
without question.

I’ve realized that I no longer look
at men my age in the street.

It’s over.

I look at them,
but no longer consider them possible.

I look at them
like a castaway on a desert island

looks at the tenth plane that passes
just a bit too far from the island.

That’s how I look at them.
They’re no longer possible.

In terms of our expectations,
there’s a radical shift.

A woman in her 40s must resign herself

to the possibility
of being propositioned by a 70-year-old

whose breath clearly indicates
his insides are rotting.

It’s normal.

The first time it happens,
you weep in the shower,

but you accept it.

It’s tragic, what happens.

The other day, walking down the street,
I passed a bald guy.

My mind was elsewhere, and suddenly,
I went, “That guy’s not bad.”

A bald guy.

Bald!

Today,
I am able to consider a bald guy sexy.

It’s crazy!
Just a year ago, I’d look at bald guys

with a mixture of amusement, compassion,
and slight condescension.

Bald guys were like a different species,

somewhere between the blind
and normal humans.

But now, today,

with my breasts sagging
into an emotional void…

I am able to consider a bald guy sexually.

No, being 40 is really tragic.

Now when I’m being super positive
and I start daydreaming,

the first idea I get is,

“I hope the next guy
who agrees to fuck me isn’t too ugly.”

That’s what I think.

It’s tragic.

It’s really tragic.

Yeah.

But there aren’t only bad sides
to maturity.

I’ve discovered
a new appreciation for calm activities.

I read a lot. A lot.

I’d never been much of a reader.

When I was 20, the only book I’d read was

Christiane F.: Autobiography of a Girl
of the Streets and Heroin Addict.

I didn’t think it was for me.

But later in life,
I started reading a lot.

I discovered how wonderfully consoling
reading is when you’re alone.

With books, you’re never alone.

I realize it’s a vicious circle.

The more I read,
the more unfuckable I get.

The more I read,

the more the circle of men
I dominate intellectually grows,

and the harder it is
to smile when they’re talking.

I’m aware of that.

And it’s not very sexy.

In sexiness,
bookish spinsters don’t rate so high.

I could probably give a semi-hard-on
to an old, bald philosopher.

That’s what I have left.

Because their sexual criteria
are different.

You don’t have to smile
when an old, bald philosopher talks.

You crease your brows and say,

“Might I contest
your previous remark, Michel…”

Then he’s hard.

Hardish.

So, I still have that.

I can’t wait.

But right now, I’m alone. I’m alone.

I live alone.

That’s usually what happens
when you’re single.

I could have children in my apartment,
but I don’t.

Because I don’t have children.

At least, I don’t think so. Who knows?

We don’t know.
It’s not only men who can say that.

Women can say it too. Sure. Why not?

There are women
who spend ten years in a coma.

Who knows what happened during that time?
You don’t know.

It’s possible because I can’t remember
what happened in my 20s.

It’s totally possible.

Who knows what happens
during ten years in a coma?

Even your family and friends
don’t stay by your bedside 24-7

when you’re in a coma.

Your loved ones are there the first year.
They’re very worried.

They wait for a sign you’ll wake up.

They’re still there the second year,

but they start trading shifts
for weekends and vacations.

The third year, no one’s in the room.

Your loved ones are outside the hospital
holding signs:

“The Right to Die with Dignity.”

This means you still have seven years,

alone, unconscious, lying in a room.

Who knows what happens?

For all I know,
I have 12 kids in Pointe-à-Pitre.

I don’t know. Who can tell?

What I just said isn’t a racist fantasy.

It’s simply a supposition
based on statistics.

If I’m serially raped while I’m in a coma

in a public hospital by the orderlies…

there’s a big chance
my kids will be West Indian.

It’s not racism. It’s sociology.

All that to say

I have no children as far as I know.

I don’t find it traumatic
to be childless. No.

Especially since I’m a pedophile.

Why live with such constant temptation?

And then…

No, I’m kidding.

Talking about pedophilia
is weird when you’re a woman.

Because it’s true that in the mind
of the general public, pedophiles are men.

It’s a male-dominated field.
It’s crazy we think that way in 2017,

when we know there are
as many female as male pedophiles.

It’s like gastronomy.
Women do the cooking,

but in terms of fame,
you only hear about the men.

There’s a real lack of equality
in the domain of pedophilia.

If there are any feminists out there
looking for a new fight,

they could work on that.

Just saying.

No, I don’t find it traumatic
to be childless.

What bothers me is still being young
enough, technically, to bear children.

That’s what bothers me.

When you say you don’t have children,
people always say, “You’ll see.”

No, I might not. Stop saying that.

What’s depressing is feeling like

you’re in life’s waiting room
until you’ve had children.

Especially since science is making
incredible progress in that field.

When I was 30, people said, “Don’t worry,
women have kids in their 40s.”

Now they say, “Don’t worry,
50-year-olds still have kids.”

Will it never stop?

It’s awful.

I want to pass the cutoff date.

I want to be on the other side
where it’s out of the question.

I want to be seen
as a woman who didn’t have children

and can no longer have any…

if only to milk its dramatic potential.

I’d like to be the mysterious woman
who didn’t have children.

No one knows why.

I’d like men to think,

“Why didn’t she have any? How mysterious!

Was it a political choice,

her personal sacrifice
in order to build a more ethical world,

one more aware of the population crisis?

Or maybe it’s a terrible tragedy for her.

Maybe no one has ever known such despair.

Maybe she roams the Forest of
Fontainebleau, howling at the moon naked,

doing shamanic chants
while breastfeeding baby boars…

and then weeps as she rides home
on the night bus.

This woman is such a mystery.
I’d love to know her.”

I’d like to be such a mystery,
but we don’t get that status. Not at all.

“Stop trying to get our pity. Anyways,
people still have kids in their 70s.

Not going to finish your pâté?
Then give it to me.

With your fat ass,
you’ll never find Prince Charming.”

That’s not very mysterious.

No.

So I don’t find it traumatic
to be childless.

Of course, there’s societal pressure.

But we know that having children
isn’t the key to happiness.

Philosophers wouldn’t have busted
their asses for the last 2,000 years

over something that can be resolved
with a quick fuck.

I think we’d know.

You have a life when you don’t
have children, and it too has value.

It’s not the same life.
It’s radically different.

The difference is staggering.

Sometimes we think, “Really? Well, then…

But if so, I’d…

No, nothing. And then, bang… Nothing.

Well, that’s that.
Plus, I’m talking to myself.”

There are times when it’s a bit…

The other day,
I was walking down the street, thinking.

I had no 4G network, so I had to think.

I was thinking about my life and thought,

“You’re 40 years old,
and you’ve nothing to show for it.

Bravo!”

I considered how much time I had left

and thought,
“Wow, that’s still really long.”

It’s incredibly long.

When you’re alone,
the years, the decades all seem the same.

Nothing disturbs the routine.

Today our life expectancies
are 80, 85 years,

but our bodies wear out just like in 1789.
That’s the real problem.

I sense that my body is finished.
It’s done.

Physically, I’m a wreck.

When it rains, I limp.
I’m telling you, it’s done.

In the morning, I sound like my father
and look like Muhammad Ali.

My cells are obviously
no longer regenerating.

My organs are degenerating.
I can literally smell it.

If I don’t wear deodorant,
I smell like soup. Like soup!

I mean, good homemade soup,

but why soup?

Why soup? I don’t even eat soup.

I hardly even eat anymore.
I can’t digest anything. Nothing.

This digestive system
is past its use-by date.

It wasn’t intended to last this long.

I don’t dare pee in the shower

because now whenever I pee,
I shit a little bit.

A little.

Just a little.

Not a big one, just a little bit.

I’m fed up.

Just a little,

but enough so that
I don’t want it in the shower.

The gluten-free lifestyle!

I can’t be the only one.
That’s impossible.

It’s the scourge of our time.
Our bowels are all screwed up.

People say, “It’s our generation.

We overused antibiotics
and destroyed our gut flora.”

But the more holistic doctors I see,
the more I get the runs.

We blame everything on antibiotics,

but still, sage isn’t…

In any case, that’s not going well for me.

Not at all. Not well at all. Not at all.

I did a stool analysis.

Not me, by myself. “What do we have here?”

No, I sent my stools to some specialists…

of stools.

What are they called, “stool-ists”?

I did.

I’d spoken to the girl
from the lab the day before.

It’s tough to talk about such intimate
and taboo subjects with medical personnel

because we rack our brains
to find a way to say things.

Certain words just can’t be used,
yet we still have to explain things.

The same goes for the doctors.
They can’t use certain words.

When you visit a gastroenterologist,
for example,

and when he says
in the middle of the appointment,

“Get undressed
and I’ll do a rectal examination,”

you obey.

You get down on all fours and obey.

But if the doctor said,

“Get undressed
so I can jam my finger up your ass,”

you’d say, “No, thanks. Really.

I ate just before I came.
I’m not in the mood.”

The choice of terms
is essential in medical relations.

Which is crazy,
because it comes down to the same thing.

So, I had the girl
from the lab on the phone.

I’d never done it before
so I had lots of questions.

All they’d said was,
“Bring in your stools.”

“What, like this?” I had no clue.

I had questions:
content, container, quantity, everything.

On the phone, I froze,

because all I could think of
were words I couldn’t say.

I couldn’t think of the appropriate terms.

I was totally frozen.

All I could think to say was,

“How many can I get you?”

What an idiot!
Internally, I cursed myself.

“Idiot!
You had to say the most idiotic thing.”

But the girl was great,
really professional.

She answered without hesitation, as if
it were a totally normal thing to say.

She answered, “One tangerine.”

“What?”

One tangerine?

“If I could shit tangerines,

I wouldn’t be having them analyzed,
madame.

I’d open one of those
hip little organic shops

where you can buy retro furniture,
organic produce, and get a tattoo.

I’d make a fortune with my tangerines.”

You’ve seen those shops

with three leeks in a crate
on a designer Formica table.

One leek is so expensive
it must cure cancer.

Walking out with your leek,
you feel like you’ve adopted a child.

“No, it won’t be a tangerine, madame.

More like a smoothie.

There will be no whole fruits.
Sorry to disappoint.”

I didn’t say that.

Obviously, I didn’t say that
because I knew she meant well.

She must have thought,

“She said, ‘How many can I get you?’

so I’ll stick to the shopkeeper metaphor
to reassure her.”

I know she meant well.

So there you are,
at home, with the instructions:

“One tangerine,
in a glass jar, in the fridge.”

It’s 8:00 p.m.

It’s going to be a great night.
That’s for sure.

You know it’s going to be a real party.

I had two glass jars at home,

a Le Parfait home-canning jar
and a Bonne Maman jam jar.

The Le Parfait…

I wasn’t comfortable enough
with the situation to turn it into a joke.

So I rejected Le Parfait

and chose the Bonne Maman jar.

I thought the red-checkered lid
gave it a festive touch,

like a country picnic. Nice.

It also had a certain logic.

The last person to whom
I gave my poop was my mother.

So…

Actually, that’s not true.

No. No.

What happens in Bucharest
stays in Bucharest.

But…

Has anyone ever put their poop
in the fridge?

It’s quite a shock.

You wouldn’t believe how shocking it is.

Taking a crap in the woods is poetic.

It’s almost an environmental act.
You return to nature what nature gave you.

You’re part of a cycle.
Something’s happening.

But in your fridge?

It’s such a shock.
The act of refrigerating your poop…

If you view it with cold rationality,
putting your poop in the fridge

is putting something back
where it was 24 hours ago.

But that’s not how the mind works.

It’s a big shock.

I’m able to share this

because it no longer seems taboo
to talk about diet and digestion.

It’s all we talk about now.

All that enters or exits the temple
of our bodies is taken seriously.

That’s one reason our social life sucks.

I’m not judging.
Personally, I’ve been totally sucked in

by these new hygienist movements.

I no longer drink nor smoke.

It caused quite a rift with my family.

I’ve got a traditional family.
Half from Normandy, half from Périgord.

Everyone smokes like chimneys
and drinks like fish.

Family dinners
are like slow collective suicides.

At home, it’s all in moderation.

So when I quit drinking and smoking,
they were offended. They felt betrayed.

I can understand.

Quitting smoking was a big deal for me.

I’d been a smoker for 25 years
when I quit.

It was a big deal.
I remember when I told my mother,

“Mom, I’m done with cigarettes.
I quit smoking.”

My mother looked me straight in the eye
and said,

“Why?”

That’s what she said.

For me, it was a heroic act.

I think quitting smoking
was the hardest thing I ever did.

To me, heavy smokers who quit are heroes.
I mean it.

Those of you who’ve never smoked
can’t understand this,

but it’s true.

Anyway, people who’ve never smoked
generally don’t understand anything.

I don’t have much respect for nonsmokers.

I have the right. It’s my right.

Often, nonsmokers have
a total lack of empathy.

It’s true.

How many times was I out on the sidewalk
in the middle of winter,

smoking my cigarette like a poor orphan,

coughing like a consumptive,

but acting like I’m fine
so I don’t scare people,

when a smug nonsmoker would walk by
and say,

“It’s funny,
cigarettes never appealed to me.

I don’t like the idea of being dependent.”

Not smoking is not something
you did well in your life.

It’s something terrible
that didn’t happen to you.

It’s a nasty thing to say to someone.

It’s like walking up
to a quadriplegic and saying,

“It’s funny,
wheelchairs never appealed to me.

I don’t like the idea of reduced mobility.
Not at all.

I want to get on the bus when it pulls up.
That’s how I feel.”

What an awful thing to say!

I believe I had no choice but to smoke.

I grew up in a family of smokers.
I was born a smoker.

On trips, my parents stuck
the three kids in the car, windows up,

my mother chain-smoked,

and my father smoked his pipe
of dark tobacco.

My father inhaled his pipe smoke.
It was really gross.

You ever seen pipe smoke?

It’s not even smoke. It has chunks.

It’s pure tar.

My father was sucking down
chunks of the highway.

And we kids in the back seat
sang, coughed, smoked.

I always smoked.

At the time,
we didn’t know it was dangerous.

It was a different time.

People also killed kittens back then.

My father killed kittens.

Not as a hobby.

When there were too many,

it was kitten-killing time at my house.

The stock of kittens
was drastically reduced.

I could see that.

It was a common topic at grade school,
I remember.

We’d compare the killing techniques
of our dads.

“How does your dad do it?”

“He puts them in a plastic bag
with some ether and closes it.

Then bam! Three times against
the garage wall. No more kittens!”

We really did discuss it.
I’m not making this up.

Can you imagine today,
a teen posting on Facebook

a photo of his haggard father
with a bag of dead kittens,

eyes all bloodshot,
emerging from the basement?

#FunTimesWithDaddy.

No.

It was a different time.

I don’t see much of my family anymore.

I don’t go out much either

because I no longer drink,
so it’s complicated.

I didn’t quit drinking for health reasons.
I just realized

there’s no point
in drowning your sorrows in alcohol.

They float.

Recently, I realized

I’ve never been so alone in my life.
Never.

But I’m fine, really.

But it’s true that I haven’t had
a real relationship in over four years.

I totally missed out on
all the new dating technologies.

Online dating sites,
Tinder and all that, I never did that.

Anyway, I was never interested
in sex just for the sake of sex.

Sex with a total stranger
is usually pretty terrible.

Otherwise, women wouldn’t press charges.

That’s not what I miss.
It’s the affection.

I feel a need for affection. Really.

Often I tell myself,

“It’d be so nice
to be able to just lay my head

on someone’s dick--
I mean, on someone’s shoulder.”

Although a dick is nothing to spit at.

Well, I could do that too.

If it got me some affection,
I could do that.

Why not?

Sure, I could do that.

It makes him happy and clears
the hair ball from my throat, so why not?

It’s sort of kinky, but…

In fact,
recently I was advised to get a cat.

It’s not very kind advice.

“Why don’t you get a cat?”
It’s really mean actually.

They don’t say, “Get a hamster.
They live two or three years.

By then you’ll have found someone.”

No, they offer you a 20-year solution.

When people say, “Get a cat,”

it means your relationship prognosis
isn’t so stellar.

I’d like to get a cat.
That’s not the issue.

I imagine it’s helpful

to be able to stroke something
whenever you like.

I can’t get a cat

because when I was little,
I tortured cats.

I sodomized cats with pencils.
That’s what I did on Wednesdays.

It wasn’t unjustified.
I wanted to be a surgeon as a kid.

A surgeon. Kids are so pretentious!

I really wanted to be a surgeon.

I’d set my alarm Wednesdays.
We didn’t have school.

I was so excited. It was operating day.
I’d get up.

I’d wear one of my mother’s aprons,

and I’d put white socks on my hands
so I looked like a real surgeon,

and I started operating on all the animals
in the house, one after the other.

I’d squeeze the hamsters’ bellies
to make them shit.

It was satisfying
because you’d just squeeze a little

and you’d get lots
of little hamster crap nuggets.

It wasn’t pain but fear
that made them shit.

I’d take my brother’s pet turtles,

pry off their scales with a knife,
and rub them with oil to make them pretty.

It was turtle cosmetic surgery.

But my favorite thing,
my absolute favorite,

was to sodomize cats with pencils.

I could do that all day long.
All day, and never get bored.

Time just flew by.
“No, I don’t want lunch!”

I was completely focused on it

because it was like
a real surgical operation.

You had to prepare the instruments:
sharpen the pencil,

sterilize it with water.

Holding down the animal
was pretty macho too.

I nearly lost an eye a few times,

but I loved this contact with animals.
I really loved it.

But now I pay for it.

Today, I can’t have a cat

because cats,

when they look at me…

I can tell they know what I did.

I feel the fear, suspicion,
and hatred in cats’ eyes.

So now I feel very uncomfortable
around cats.

It’s the same with babies.

No, I’m the youngest.
No little sisters or brothers.

But I did babysit.

Admit it,

who’s never pinched
a baby really hard in the dark?

When you turn the lights on,
he doesn’t know it was you

so he reaches out to you, crying.

It’s cute.

It’s adorable. It’s cute.

It’s really cute.

Sometimes I think about
the horrible things I did as a kid,

like that or even worse,
and I think, “You’re a monster.”

Then I see on my bank statement,

“Automatic monthly donation
to Handicap International, three euros,”

and I say, “No, you’re wonderful!”

I spend my time considering myself
either a monster or an angel.

That’s megalomania, right?

Otherwise I’d consider myself
a normal human being

with normal human flaws and qualities,

all in average proportion.

I don’t think I’m alone in this.
I think it’s a general trend.

We’re all becoming megalomaniacs.

The problem is

we have access
to increasingly sophisticated technology,

tools that can accomplish wonders,
and since we’re constantly using them,

we think we’re just as sophisticated
and intelligent when we aren’t.

Just because technology evolves
doesn’t mean mankind evolves.

Airplanes, for example.

We’re like, “Wow!
We’ve fulfilled man’s oldest dream!

We can fly! We invented the airplane!”

No one in this room
knows how to build an airplane.

Maybe someone out there is really handy

and might be able to make
an airline meal tray,

but that’s about it.

We all crow about our technology.

With our smartphones: “Can you imagine
Cro-Magnon men with a smartphone?

It’d blow their minds.
Those Cro-Magnons were idiots.”

The difference between a Cro-Magnon and me

is that the Cro-Magnon could make
the tools of his trade.

The Cro-Magnon knew how
to make a flint ax.

If you take away my microphone…

It’s humiliating.

It’s a humiliating situation.

Because it’s humiliating

to be so dependent on objects
we don’t know how to make.

It’s humiliating having a small rectangle
that’s a million times smarter than you.

It’s a sad situation
because we got swindled.

Technological progress was meant

to help us achieve
our dreams and fantasies,

but that’s not what happened.

What happened is that technology
stole our dreams and fantasies.

That’s what happened.

Why else would we still dream about flying
when we have airplanes?

We dream we’re flying,

not assembling Airbus parts
in a hangar in Toulouse

or piloting the plane. That sucks.

We dream we are the airplane.

That’s the real fantasy,
to become a machine.

It’s sad.

Today we speak of ourselves like machines.

We constantly say stuff like, “I’m
in Destroyer Mode,” or “Chill-Out Mode.”

We use machine terms
to talk about ourselves.

Increasingly, we conform to machine
processes. It’s a dangerous trend.

I flew all summer.

I didn’t spend my summer in a plane.

That’s nonsense. No one does that.

Unless you’re
a radical climate change denier.

Then you might
spend your vacation like that.

“I rented an A380.
I was the only passenger.

I filled it with cheap steak.

I spit kerosene and ate meat
three months nonstop.

Was the weather unusually warm
in September?

No? Then let people live a little, okay?

In Chill-Out Mode.”

No, I didn’t do that,

but I flew a few times for work
and I was at several airports.

I noticed the same setup outside
the bathroom at every airport.

It’s a little stand,
very elegant and modern,

with five buzzer buttons on top

with a row of smileys going from
“very unhappy” to “very happy,”

with a sign above it that invites you
to rate the cleanliness of the bathroom.

The first time I saw it,

I was like, “Wow!
How fun, a buzzer stand.”

It’s true,
we rarely have a buzzer stand at home,

so when we come across one,
we’re happy to buzz.

I admit, I buzzed.

I don’t even know which one.
It was just for the fun of buzzing.

Then I turn around

and see a little old lady in a smock
hauling a bucket and sponges,

heading in to clean the bathroom.

It wasn’t until then that it clicked.

I thought, “Damn.”
Plus, you’re in an airport.

Only ten percent of the world
can afford to fly.

Airports are
the most exclusive club on the planet.

The only poor people in an airport
are there to clean the toilets,

and we grade them.

It’s absolutely disgusting
to inform on them.

But you don’t realize that.

When you see the stand, you think,

“Wow! How fun! Modern and hygienic.
Totally harmless.”

I buzz and buzz, in Nazi Mode.
That’s what is really happening.

Technology doesn’t draw upon
the humanity of our intelligence.

The rating stand doesn’t ask us
to have scruples.

As humans,
we’re turning into pieces of shit.

Humanity is no longer considered
an asset in this world.

Humanity will soon be outdated.
We’re just empty shells. It’s true.

We sense, deep inside,
that we’re pieces of shit

and technology will leave us in the dust.

That’s how we become megalomaniacs.

We feel like shit,
and that’s rough, really rough,

so at the first chance to revive our
narcissism, we latch onto it blindly.

Take Uber, for example.

We must have a serious inferiority complex

to have accepted Uber without question.

Uber, as a system,
is totally megalomaniacal.

The docile, silent lackey

who picks you up anywhere, at any hour,

in a black sedan with tinted windows

and opens the door for you
to get in and out of the car.

That’s just nuts.

“Get out of the car, Manu.
Why do you need a chauffeur?

You can’t even make a flint ax.”

We’re sick. We crave feeling special
because we know we’re pieces of shit.

Our ego is constantly swinging
from zero to 10,000-plus.

We’re sick. We’re becoming sick.

There’s a common expression
which perfectly illustrates

the current state of our bipolar egos:

“No problem.”

“No problem” is the perfect cocktail
of paranoid egomania.

“I’ll be five minutes late.” “No problem.”

No, it’s not a problem. I’m informing you
I’ll be late because I’m polite.

Why insinuate it’s a problem?

Why announce that your ego won’t dissolve
in acid after such a terrible insult?

There was no insult!

At the store:
“Can I help you?” “No, just looking.”

“No problem.”

“Actually, there does seem
to be a problem.

You’re an adult with the emotional
vulnerability of a newborn.

That’s a major problem.

If anyone needs help here, it’s you.”

It’s awful.

I think human dignity
is heading for extinction.

Seriously.

Worse, more generally,
civilization is dying.

I know I’m depressed,
but there’s some truth in what I’m saying.

But it’s okay, because we don’t have
much left to offer as a civilization.

Look at the reactions
after every terrorist attack.

It’s obvious our civilization is done for.

Remember the day after November 13?

What was town hall’s first
symbolic response after the attack?

To plaster the entire city
with “Paris Is a Party” posters.

Paris is a party?

First of all, that’s not true.
Paris hasn’t been a party in a long time.

Ever since Juliette Gréco hit menopause,
Paris is no party.

All the bars close by 2:00 a.m.

People hang banners
outside their windows saying,

“Stop that noise, we need our sleep.”

Paris is a flophouse
for insomniac hipsters

who pee too much green tea at night.
That’s Paris today.

Even if it were true…

I’m not judging.
I too am full of green tea.

Even if it were true, “Paris Is a Party”?

These people show up

and kill 130 people in cold blood
then kill themselves,

all for a 2,000-year-old religion,

and all we can say to that is…

“No. This place is a party.

You ruined the party.

If you want to carry out attacks,
do them in places made for that.

There are tons: India, Pakistan.

Here, our values are freedom and partying.

Here, it’s whatever we want and Zumba.

Those are our values.”

We’ve got nothing left to offer.

And don’t get me started
on the French flags everywhere.

That was ludicrous.

The guys who did it were born in France.

This is no time for misplaced patriotism.

When you’re dying of cancer
after 30 years of heavy smoking,

I doubt your loved ones
will bury you in your Marlboro T-shirt.

It’s idiotic. It makes no sense.

We’re all becoming idiots,
that’s what’s happening.

All together, yes, but still.
Total idiots.

And the graffiti, all over Paris,

“Not even scared!”

Brainless.

I’m surprised they didn’t spray-paint
“No problem!”

No. It’s over. We’re through.

We’re done. Time to step aside.
It’s the circle of life.

Attacks suck. They really do.

I don’t even know anyone who died
in the attacks. Lame!

People are like, “I knew someone.”
I didn’t know anyone.

Actually, I did know one guy
who was at the concert,

but we hadn’t spoken in a long time.

An ex.

Total asshole too.

Karma!

I always say,
“What goes around, comes around.”

Although I didn’t expect it
to be that extreme.

Anyway, it’s done. Boom.

I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.
Speaking ill of the dead is taboo.

Apart from certain rare exceptions,

like Hitler or Léon Zitrone.
Then it’s allowed.

But usually,
we don’t speak ill of the dead.

About a dead guy,
we don’t say, “What an asshole.”

It’s like their bullshit dies with them.

It’s one of death’s rare advantages.

We don’t speak ill of the dead.

My father died when I was little,

long before I started therapy,

which means that in my sessions,

everything is my mother’s fault.

My mother gets all the blame
during therapy

and my father, nothing.

It’s absurd.

He’s the one who raped me,

so he’s probably responsible.

Just kidding.

He’s not dead.

No, he didn’t rape me.

But he is dead.

Gotcha!

I don’t think he raped me,
but I haven’t finished my psychoanalysis.

I hope I’m still in for some surprises.

For the price I pay!

When you buy an advent calendar, there
should be something inside the windows.

But we don’t speak ill of the dead.

We don’t speak ill of them
because the problem is,

for the living,

the dead are always dead.

It’s like they’re always
in the process of dying.

They’re always victim
to this big thing which is death,

so we can’t speak ill of them.
It’s worse than shooting at an ambulance.

It’s like shooting at an ambulance
at a red light.

The problem with the dead is,

once they’re dead,

they’re dead.

Actually, no. You’re not truly dead

until the last person who knew you dies,

because you still exist as a dead person
when they think of you.

After that, you change status.

We don’t know much about it,
but then we can start speaking ill of you.

Because everyone who knew you is dead.

What I just said is useless.

But you know what I mean.

Actually, you don’t. Anyway.

What I mean is,

even when you bring the dead back to life,
like in your dreams,

it’s not like they never died.

Death is always there somehow.

I often dream about my father.

In the dream,
he’s not there because he’s dead.

But then I realize he tricked us all.
He’s just off somewhere, hanging out.

I figure it out
because he answers his cell.

I yell at him, “Dad, do you know how
worried we’ve been since your cremation?”

What an idiotic dream!

Or I dream that I’m at the table
with my brother, sister, and mother.

My father isn’t there. He’s dead.

Suddenly, my foot touches something
under the table.

I look under the table…

and it’s my father’s body,

dead, stretched out under the table.

I look at the others like…

“Wow.

Bad vibes under the table.

Seriously,
Dad’s corpse is under the table.

We totally forgot to put him
wherever the dead get put.

Should we finish dinner first?

An after-dinner brandy, then dig the hole?
What should we do?”

What an idiotic dream!

It’s risky to tell people your dreams.

It’s always a risk to tell your dreams.
It’s really not a good idea.

The weird thing is, we’re always
really excited to tell people our dream,

but as soon as we start,

we quickly realize
they’re not really listening.

It takes a lot of charisma
to tell your dreams.

Seriously.

Martin Luther King did it really well.

All that to say,

it’s good when your parents
aren’t so dead,

I mean, don’t die too early,

because it’s important to be able
to speak ill of your parents.

It’s part of our evolution
to be in conflict with where we came from.

Otherwise, we’d never know doubt.

I’m not saying doubt is essential.

You also have the right
to be successful and happy.

But for those who choose to doubt,

it’s important
to be able to criticize parents.

It influences so many things:

your relationship with your parents,
your upbringing…

For example, recently,
I’ve been questioning my sexuality.

Original, I know.

More the way sexuality is formed.

The first time I ever touched genitals,

other than my own or my dog’s…

Because I wasn’t only cruel to animals.

I could also please them if needed.

I’ll give you some context. When I was
little, our dog was terrified of storms.

He was a hunting dog, a French pointer,
really thin, skin and bones,

and whenever there was a storm,
he’d scoot under the table

and tremble from head to toe
like in a cartoon.

It really upset me
because I loved that dog.

The only way I found to calm him down

was to jerk him off.

For a little girl, a dog’s penis is funny.

It’s really funny

for a little girl.

It’s like a…

little lipstick sausage. It’s funny.

For a little girl, it’s funny.

Now it’s perverted,
but for a little girl, it’s funny.

End of the canine digression.

The first time I touched the genitals

of another human being

it was my cousin’s, a girl.

Like everybody. Everybody.

Everyone here tonight
with male or female cousins

has touched their cousins’ genitals.

That’s why we have cousins.

It’s the role of cousins,

to give you access to genitals
that aren’t your brother’s or sister’s.

That’s why we have cousins.
It’s completely normal.

With my cousin, this started

when we were around seven or eight.

We didn’t live in the same city.
She lived in Rouen,

so we mostly saw each other
at our summer house in Périgord.

At the time,
I had a teddy bear named Baloo.

We spent the whole summer
doing the same thing every day.

My cousin and I would walk through
the fields, arm in arm, holding Baloo,

and as soon as we were out of sight,

we’d have some fun.

It was always the same story line:
We were Baloo’s parents.

We’d lay down
and start touching each other.

Suddenly we’d realize Baloo was watching.

We’d yell at Baloo,
but continue to touch each other.

It was very twisted.

“Stop, Baloo, can’t you see
we’re doing grown-up things?

If you watch, you’ll be traumatized.

Too late! You’re traumatized.
Serves you right.”

It always ended the same way,
by fucking Baloo in the cornfield.

Part reality, part fiction,
it was a hellish triple incest.

But that was our game,
and we played it over and over.

We’d head home at dusk,

cheeks flushed, eyes bright,
hair sticking up.

Our parents were like,
“The country air is so good for them!”

Everyone was happy.

And so, my cousin and I grew up…

but we kept playing with each other.

This went on for a long time.

But to me, it wasn’t my sexuality.

It was just my cousin.

Maybe it was an extreme family
relationship, but she was just my cousin.

It wasn’t my sexuality.

Until the day she literally dumped me.
I was 16. She was 17.

I went to visit her in Rouen.

We got wasted and went back to her place,

all wound up,
and country air and all that.

It was normal.
We did it every time we were together.

We woke up the next morning

and went for breakfast at a café.

I remember I ordered a bowl of hot milk

and I was making dumb jokes
because my cuticles were florescent yellow

due to the vaginal suppositories
she was using for a yeast infection.

My cuticles were florescent yellow
and that made me laugh.

I’ve lost the men.

I’ve lost most of the men.

Guys usually don’t know
what suppositories are.

Some men can live their entire lives

without ever knowing
what a vaginal suppository is.

You know peanut M&M’s?

It’s a peanut M&M that we put
inside our pussy when it itches.

It melts,

and two days later,
we start to feel better.

We stop looking at forks thinking,
“I need to scratch with that!”

Peanut M&M’s are lifesavers. Really.

Thanks, Mars! They’re great.

There. Glad that’s cleared up.

This was in the ’90s,

so her “peanut M&M” was fluorescent,
my cuticles were fluorescent,

and that made me laugh like an idiot.

My cousin and I were fans of the Bioman
series, so I joked, “Yellow Power!”

It was really dumb but it made me laugh.
But she wasn’t laughing.

I could sense a sort of chill in the air,

but couldn’t understand the cause.
I was clueless.

Then she looked me
straight in the eye and said,

“Blanche, you make me sick.
What we did makes me sick.

I never want it to happen again.
Forget everything. It’s over.”

There I was with my hot milk,

my fluorescent cuticles…

Total shock.

I realized, just as it ended,
that we’d had a real relationship.

I was devastated.

Later I found out she’d cheated on me
with another cousin, the slut!

I was really upset.

Thinking about this the other day,
I thought,

“This is awful.
I might be a repressed homosexual!”

It’s sad because
I can’t switch directions now.

I’ve been trained for dick for too long.

It’d be like suddenly changing cultures.

I can’t start eating pussy now.

I can’t even eat with chopsticks.

I wouldn’t know what to do with a pussy.

If you gave me one,
I wouldn’t know what to do.

But still,
I can feel that I’m not totally centered.

Something is missing.

The other day I was at the gym.

I don’t know why
I bother to keep in shape.

The next person to see me naked
will probably be the coroner.

Still, I try to keep
the mess under control.

I also do it

for the firefighters.

I’m terrified firefighters will mock me
the day they cut me down from the ceiling.

My friend was a firefighter so I know
they joke about their interventions.

It helps them cope. I understand.

But I don’t want to be
the butt of a firefighter’s joke.

I can just imagine:

“You can bet this one ate more
than just sleeping pills!” No, thanks.

I prefer to remain, as much as possible,

able to be lifted and moved once I’m dead.

No, it’s true.

Also, presentable.

Dying is nice, but don’t forget
about how you’ll look in the coffin.

Open-casket funerals.

You are seen. People see you.

There’ll be people, exes…

I want it to be a bit tragic, romantic.

I want my funeral to be elegant.

I want them to pass my coffin
and look in and say,

“Poor dear. She was a poet.

She wasn’t made for this cruel world.”

That’s what I want.

I don’t want them to walk up and say,

“We should’ve known something was wrong,
just look at her!

Yesterday, I saw her in Auchan
eating cookies straight from the box,

staring into space!”

No.

No, I want it to be a bit elegant.

So I make an effort.

I was at the gym…

in the dressing room, on the bench,

not pumping iron.

I was in the building,
so you could say I was there.

Girls were getting dressed and undressed,
exiting the showers.

All these naked girls
walking around in front of me.

I looked.

Not looking like, “Hey, that one’s butt
is square. That one, more a triangle.”

No. I looked like,

“Check out that tight ass!”

I was like…

a lech. A lech.

But I don’t react like that
when seeing butts meant to arouse desire,

like the tight, young, oiled butts
in a computer commercial.

I don’t react to those.

But there, those little butts,

unaware that they are butts,

just walking around, wiggling,

changing from jeans into sweatpants.

I was totally overcome.

In my head, I started seeing
really hard-core penetration scenes.

I thought, “This is awful.”

If those girls could see
the images in my mind,

they’d immediately call the police.

The images were what was really bad…

not the fact that they sensed my desire.

I think every girl who’s been naked
in a locker room has thought…

“Maybe there are undercover dykes
who aren’t here to just work out.”

We’ve all thought that,
but we think it, then we forget.

We think it, we bend over, then we forget.

We don’t feel threatened by a dyke.
That’s what I mean.

We think, “At worst,

being raped by a dyke can’t be too awful.”

“Now that I’ve got you alone in the alley,
I’m going to lick your pussy!”

“No problem, go ahead.

But hurry up, I’m freezing.

Where are you headed?
Want to split an Uber?”

It’s not at all frightening

to be the object of homosexual desire
when you’re a girl.

That’s what I mean.

What freaks us out

is penetration.

This isn’t new.
It’s not a revolutionary idea.

Simone de Beauvoir said,
“All penetration is rape.”

Those are strong words.

When your initials are
the French abbreviation for “bathroom,”

you’re unlikely to be crazy about sex.

But it’s true
there is a sense of coercion,

of domination and violence in hetero sex.

The first time a girl sleeps with a boy,

for the girl,
it’s mostly a matter of giving in.

It’s not literally rape, of course,
because the boy takes it step by step

so she doesn’t feel
like it’s happening without her consent.

It’s the technique
of getting one’s foot in the door.

Or rather, one’s fingers in the pussy.

But this idea is present,

one of violence, intrusion, domination.

Yes.

I’m not putting men on trial here.
Don’t misunderstand me.

That isn’t my intention.

I think men have no idea

of the violence they inflict on us
with our sexuality.

No idea.

In sexuality, men are experimenting.

They’re like explorers.

I think for men, the body of a woman
is a playground and they try things out.

It isn’t ill intentioned.

It’s like giving a learning toy
to a monkey.

We’ve all seen those movies of the lab

with the chimp struggling
with a learning toy

while the scientist takes notes.

The chimp tries to put the cylinder
in the square hole. Doesn’t fit.

He tries the triangle. Doesn’t fit.

Once the chimp figures out
that the cylinder fits the round hole…

he’s happy.

He’s really happy.

And he’ll do it over and over.

But if the cylinder

also fits the star-shaped hole
if you force it…

Let’s imagine the holes
are a bit flexible.

…and if the scientist
doesn’t reprimand him at that instant,

by administering a small electric shock,
for example…

if the chimp thinks it’s cool
to put the cylinder in the star-hole…

he’ll repeat the action.

He’ll be very happy and he’ll repeat it.

Men are exactly the same.

I’m not saying men are monkeys.

Not at all. They’re very different.

Monkeys don’t bomb people
to convert them to democracy,

among other differences.

What I mean is, it’s the same mechanism.

Since we don’t reprimand them…

We don’t electrocute men, or only rarely.

…they learn that violence
is an option in sexuality.

And since we’re taught to shut up,

we also accept violence as part
of the process of eroticism, of sexuality,

of desire in general.

One doesn’t exist without the other.

That’s why desire is problematic
in egalitarian societies

because our libido is
the same as a Cro-Magnon’s.

There can be no desire
without a dose of humiliation

and domination.

We desire a man
that we could, potentially, fear.

Rape is a female fantasy. That’s crazy.

Rape is a fantasy

until the day it really happens.

But it’s crazy.

I’m a feminist.

I criticize Femen sometimes, but only
because I’m jealous of their protests.

With the state of my breasts today,

if I wrote something on my torso,
it’d be hard to decipher.

But I am feminist.

I’m deeply feminist.

I believe men and women should
have the same rights, opportunities,

and salaries all over the world.

But I’m not totally feminist
because it’s impossible.

For example, I wear heels.
A woman in heels isn’t totally feminist.

What does wearing heels mean?

That we’ve accepted the image
of being fragile gazelles

whose hind legs can be snapped
at any moment.

That’s what heels mean.

This means there’s resistance.

Somewhere inside us,
we want a dominator and a dominated.

It’s neither good nor bad.
I’m just pointing it out.

It’s how we’ve assimilated sexuality.

The first time I got it up the ass…

I’m not talking about
when I voted for François Hollande.

I mean,
the time I literally got it up the ass.

That’s what I’m talking about now.

I was with a boy.

He was behind me.

Everything was going well.
It was very pleasant.

Very well done. Bravo, sir.

Suddenly…

but really, really suddenly,

a suddenness rare
in the history of suddenness,

nothing has ever been so sudden
except maybe the big bang,

the boy puts it up my ass.

I’m thrown out of the bed by the pain.

My entire body leapt completely
out of bed.

It wasn’t even my contracting muscles
that threw me out.

The body itself totally rejected the dick.

I leapt like a frog, reflexively.
Bang, like that. Really.

My head slammed
into the corner of the room.

I was totally nude,
crumpled in the corner on the floor

like a small, dying rodent.

That’s what I looked like.

I didn’t have time to tell the guy,

“Stop! Time out! Careful! Wrong hole.

Moment of silence, my anus is dead.

Wait! #IAmMyAnus.”

The guy grabs me by the leg,

pulls me up and sticks it up my ass again!

What a nightmare.

Total nightmare.

Total nightmare.

Because sodomy is like a tunnel.

Once the person begins to sodomize,
they sodomize until the very end.

There’s no break, no escape.

You grip the sheet, feel your fever
rising, and wait for it to be over.

That’s all you can do.

The guy finishes.

I didn’t dare tell him I hadn’t liked it.

I didn’t dare. No way.

Although I didn’t go,
“Wow! Amazing!”, either.

I didn’t say that.

I didn’t say anything.

Also, I was in awe of this guy.
I was really in love.

He was much older. Eleventh grade.
I didn’t want to seem like a kid.

But I didn’t say anything.

I remember afterwards,

he was lying on the bed, on his stomach.

He was resting.

And I was there next to him

and I stroked his back.

I still hadn’t said a word.

I was still stupefied,
just glad it was over.

I stroked his back. I don’t know why.

Probably to show him I wasn’t dead.

Like, “Don’t worry.
Sodomy, I can take it.”

I stroked his back like this.

It’s possible my movement was
a bit mechanical.

Anyway, I was no longer there.
I’d switched off.

I’d secreted so much adrenaline
to withstand the pain

that I was hallucinating.

It was crazy. I saw visions
of religious torture. I don’t know why.

I could see my anus
crucified in the desert

with rays of color behind it,

and my mother kneeling under the cross,

weeping tears of poop, like this,

with bells going ding-dong-ding.

I was no longer there. Gone.

So it’s possible my motions were
a bit mechanical. It’s possible.

After a while,
the boy turns to me and says,

“Would you mind changing spots?”

I said, “What seems to be the problem?”

I had no idea what he was saying.

He said, “You keep rubbing the same spot.
It’s bugging me.

Could you change spots?”

“Could I change spots?

You’ve just diverted
one of my vital organs,

a lethal risk, if we’re being frank,

and I didn’t say a word.

You shattered all my dreams.

All I want is to spend the rest of my life
soaking my ass in a bucket of ointment,

and you want me to caress another spot
because it bugs you?”

I didn’t tell him that. Obviously.

I only came up with that two weeks ago.

I didn’t say anything and I changed spots.

Then I left. It was so embarrassing.
I didn’t say anything.

I got dressed because I had to go.
I was late.

I had to bike home too.

I was on my bike.

Obviously, I pedaled standing up.

I got on my bike,

and with the first stroke of the pedal,
I start farting.

A fart that never stopped.

Never. I was terrified. I was terrified.

“This is just great! You’ll fart
your whole life! Great! Wonderful!”

It never stopped.

The boy’s house was over a mile from mine,

so I farted for over a mile

riding home, like this, on my Solex moped.

I got home.

My father yelled at me
because it was late.

And my mother said, “Good night, Blanche.”

I couldn’t sleep a wink.

What a dumb name.

That’s what I wanted to tell you tonight.
Thanks for listening!

Thank you and good night.
I enjoyed my time with you. Thanks.

-Who are they from?
-Your agent.

There are still a few people outside.

If you hurry, you could see them.

-Okay, I’m coming.
-You’d better.

Let me just freshen up and change.

-Here we go!
-Good evening.

-Thank you so much.
-You’re welcome.

-What’s your name?
-Albert.

“For Albert.”

-Thanks very much.
-Want to get a drink?

I leave for Rouen tomorrow morning,
otherwise I’d have loved to.

-You are very moving.
-Want to get a drink?

Tonight is a bit tricky,
but thanks anyway.

Thanks.

-Want to get a drink?
-We’d love to, but…

-Good night, and thanks again!
-You too. Bye.

Congratulations.
You were fantastic. I laughed so hard.

-I had a great time.
-What’s your name?

-Thomas.
-Thomas.

Want to get a drink?

Right now?

Actually, I have a breakfast.

-Tonight?
-Tomorrow, but really early.

Anyway, it was great. Thanks and bravo.

-Thanks.
-Bye, Blanche.

-Four.
-Thanks.

Hey! What’s your problem?
Get lost! Scram, you slut!

-It was just a cuddle.
-A cuddle? You’re disgusting.

-What? I’ll give you ten euros.
-Have you no respect?

-Shut up.
-Get lost, tramp.

-Shut up.
-Slut! Get the fuck out of here.

Don’t you have a home? Piece of shit.

Bitch. Whore.

Nutjob.

Subtitle translation by Lynn Massey