Chronicles of living with a French dude

• The cigarette smoke smell continuously billowing from under his bedroom door
• The fact that he always has a lady friend around, and never has trouble finding new ones.
• He bakes his own bread. In our nasty ass kitchen.
• His accent. Oh his endearing accent.
• The image of him running into the kitchen this morning, shirt unbuttoned, hair tousled, neck hickey-laden, and half-smoked cigarette clutched by his lips- with a bowl of risen dough in his hands, which he kept in his bedroom, now ready for the oven.
• He bought a desktop and computer circa 1998 because he broke his laptop on the train coming home from France one weekend. The same trip where he got lost en route to France, got stranded in the early morning at a god-forsaken train station, and was let into the closed ticket office by a janitor so he wouldn't freeze to death. 
• He has a band. 
• "You bring a boy to ze house until six-therthy AM and you don't have sex with him? Why, S, why."
• He is too cool for school. Literally. 
• He is a loving housemate, and I'm so happy to call him my friend. He also ups my street cred in these parts, so I can't complain.