TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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What is that? I love foreign languages!
At a party, Joe! Pow! Pow! and I converse in gibberish, the language of fools and madmen and tipsy kids.
We make nonsense . . . and yet somehow it makes sense to Girl. And why not? It's exotic. It's a foreign language. Teach me a few phrases.
(Obviously, Joe, we're not from around here.)
At the Other Change of Hobbit, he asks, Where are you from?
Blinking, I stammer, Berkeley. (I mean, I live here.)
I'm surprised! You speak with an accent so I thought you had to be--