FIGHT CLUB.

A waiter at Saint-Honore just quit his or her job on the phone with the manager. The 40-year-old lady from the South looks certainly upset. She's rambling very directly in front of my eyes and to my ears. Shit, a three-generation family just walked in. But they seem civilized.

Fight Club is my next favorite movie. I actually can't remember the main character's name. He's there the whole time. I guess the only explanation is because he's the confused kind of characters, someone that finds himself along the process of the movie while meeting absurd, important people. Therefore, he's not complete to remember. 

Brad Pitt looks a lot less handsome. I usually prefer actors to be uglier, rougher and actress prettier, more sophisticated in movies than in real life. The three-generation family is actually quite adorable. This is also the first time I can acknowledge the yellow tone of the sofa on which they're sitting on: mustard. 

I need something like Fight Club. A place where I can be someone else strictly from the moment it begins until when it ends, and everybody who knows me there will only knows me that way during the time it lasts. 

Maybe I ticked when the three-generation walked in because it's my soft spot: family. I've never really had a desired one with a gentle father, an independent mother and closed sisters. My father is distant and my mother was a bit scared every time she tried to speak her mind. But I would never be who I am today if my family were normal. They're kind of odd. I guess that adds onto my difference. 

I'm alone again at Saint Honore. I seriously need to found a fight club. How much I love to win. The fact that I may be beaten up badly to loss makes me want it even more.