Sainte-Anne [English translation]

I don't even know where to start, actually.

That said,I'm doing this for the first time

so you'll excuse me

if it goes a bit all over the place

or if I am too muddled.

Have to say that those days

I had to struggle to sort my thoughts, after all

I'm struggling for words

Well I'll sketch it out for you

I was born in a rather well-off family

I always was privileged

I never lacked love or anything else for that matter

even though my mother, who is a bit working class,

was sometimes a bit strict with my brothers and me.

I was good at school, I behaved at home.

I don't remember screwing up too much as a kid.

On the other hand I have got pretty good degrees

and now I know my future is more or less set;

let's say I know where I'll end up if I follow down that track.

I'll probably have a wife and beautiful children,

a loan to repay, an English spaniel and a hardtop convertible.

And still, you see,

for six months now I've hardly been able to sleep,

I can skip meals for two days

without even noticing

and when I look in the mirror I see a weird guy

washed out, translucent, so livid

it would make a genocide smile

Doctor, I'm not kidding

You have to do something for me

Anything

Grab a hammer and smash my fingers, I don't know,

because right now I'm at the end of my rope.

I can't go out in the streets anymore

I can't set foot in offices anymore

Anyway I became unable to take the subway

It reeks of death, it reeks of piss

It makes me claustrophobic and agressive

Also, I really look like a dickhead in my oversized suit

that does not fit, so even if I cared to pretend otherwise

I still would have "cannon fodder" written all over me.

And there's all these people trying to cram themselves in no matter what,

pushing, sweating, hissing between their teeth like snakes.

Go ahead, you jerk, get in, get in, that's right

Anyway, even if you come first

in the end we'll all endure the same sleazy day

eyes stuck to the computer screen

you burn your eyes out skimming over

things you have no clue about.

"See, you got to realize this file is top priority

he coughs up 300€/h, our customer

so work it out, do a Google search if you have to

but you get it done pronto, lad"

Sure, you're absolutely right, Sir.

My bad, I'm not responsive enough.

Hah, that's right, that's funny, just slap me in the face.

You cunt.

Why don't you rather try ramming a few doorknobs up your ass?

I am sick of pigging out on

overpriced1 mixed salads

or junk meat like boiled cardboard,

sick of eating in a hurry

then spending shabby afternoons nitpicking over nothing

and finally jumping straight into afterworks with coworkers.

What a downer! Seems we love so much being screwed over

all day that we cry out for more in the evening.

Well, it must be said we meet skanks there.

Or rather "career girls"2,

namely chicks with emotional problems just like us.

We get acquainted, we feed them bullshit,

pretending we're coworkers while we're mere students,

and in reality we spend our time

wearing our butt against too narrow benches

listening to bald guys ranting

all day long

ranting about anything and mostly every meaningless thing3

Fortunately, all days end up the same:

we come home and dress to kill.

We put our pollo shirts on with the collar turned up,

then we meet at the HQ

to binge on overpriced beers.

By the way, once we're a bit pissed

we often feel like acting the rebel

and shouting at the bartender:

"who do you think you are, asshole?

don't you think your beer is a bit expensive?"

We would do that if we had a bit of nerve in our arteries,

but we rather keep still

and go on wasting our money,

spending our breath to no great avail

and smoking our lungs out

just to wear ourselves down real good before we get old,

to deepen the shadows already rimming our eyes.

Other than that, we mostly talk about girls we saw on the net,

and about the ones we would like to score with in parties.

For tonight, like every night, we'll try to get laid,

but definitely not to make love,

because love is for fags.

Nothing to get worked up about, really:

guys talking about the girls they do,

girls getting done so they can let people know.

Sex often leaves regrets,

diseases sometimes too.

In the end we get no pleasure out of it,

we don't really want it.

We do it mostly to stop thinking.

That hides the raw wounds, but that is a secret.

To tell the truth, we are lost, idle, jaded,

all alone like wounded animals.

We are sad and our hearts are bleeding,

but we hide behind our big mouths and our harsh words.

Between us we call ourselves "dude", "skank", "bastard", "bonehead", "bitch", "butch", "asshole"...

Because though we don't want it that way, others are an endless struggle

Really, doctor, it's a wonderful world

and a wonderful city too

Paris

Paris the necropolis

Paris that reeks of overripe meat

Paris that drags bits of our lives down little by little

as it collapses

Paris is so healthy, and we are good people,

so good we're too good for our neighbours

to whom we don't pay more attention

than to the piss behind the toilet bowl.

Sometimes I just want to scream:

"Don't get any closer!

Don't get any closer!

Don't you touch me!

Don't get any closer!"

Doctor, I need something

anything

or I'm gonna lose it.

I could hit an old bag, a bystander, a brat

and that will be ugly.

That will be really ugly.

"Don't get any closer!

Don't get any closer!

Don't you touch me!

Don't get any closer!

Don't you touch me!

Don't you touch me!"

1. In Paris in 2014, a mixed salad would cost about 6€ instead of 12€ in an average restaurant. These kind of prices are found around white collar workplaces, typically in La Défense. Same goes for the beer a bit later, typically in the trendy Oberkampf/Bastille area.2. the French uses an odious mix of "single" and "combatant"3. a hijacking of "tout et n'importe quoi" ("everything and anything"). "n'importe quoi" alone can mean "rubbish"