Well, okay. Randomly:

I moved to Paris.

And right before leaving Casablanca, I filled up with these hundred things that I never thought I would use once and that I now include into the 3S-P-2S – understand: the snobbish-skinny-sophisticated Parisienne surviving set*. You know: rollers, toe separator, eyelash curler… And everything supposed to change my lashes’, my nails’ and my hair’s lives and consequently, my life’s life.

— yeah well, there you met my ideal; having my nails always well-done, and freshly polished, my skin as soft as peach, my make up beyond reproach. But my reality is that my ideal only happens once every two months and that I came to understand that – here goes a damn universal truth - hair in Paris come to reach the ugliness peak, that skin seems to have as much cracks as the Joconde’s and that spending its whole night manipulating and tearing to pieces cardboard (fyi, the architecture student misfortune) implies serious blurring once in front of your glass.

I am studying architecture.

And in spite of all the the mental and physical attacks that it implies, i am putting that on the top of The coolest things ever given to do on earth (the architecture studies, not the attacks). Amen.

I constantly make lists.

Be it on my computer or on some sketchbook, I have a file for every department of my brain. I find it healthy and invigorating to briefly take a look at what you have greatly achieved or lived when you’re feeling very down or to look through these wonderful works inspirational people had realized. 

I proudly have set in order my social life.

Exit you high school acquaintances with who I only ever shared homework, erased you never-spoken-to facebook friends, I am limiting my social life to these people for who I seem to matter, and that truly do matter for me (and, well, also to these awesome long-haired artists that happen to be my classmates). And that, at the risk of seeming insufferably snobbish (or, shall we say it, like a total bitch (fuck yea, totally worth it)).

I am not on Blogspot anymore.  

It took me time to finally realize that it didn’t match me that much. Lots of things were bothering me, the lay-out, the annoying fashion bloggers that had my blog commented so I can comment back, the brands that were looking for ad being included. Tumblr happens to be much more authentic.
And, well, neither were the title fitting anymore. I have never specified it, but 10th muse was referring to the antic mythology, that claimed Zeus having 9 daughters with Mnemosyne. Each of these girls would have been granted with some attribute in the poetic art. I don’t really know of what exactly i was thinking back in time… May that muse be of what exactly? Perhaps of fashion, arts? Too pompous, too conceited. Truth to be told, my current title is MOUT** me, highest level of truthfulness dude. Or may it be of simplicity. But I happen to be liking that kind of simplicity. 

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* Well, yes, I’m like that. I keep inventing words, relating them, making them form some weird code words that people eventually forget, or simply don’t understand. Get used folks. 
** Another thing about weird me: I love including arabic words smack-dab in the middle of my posts. In the present context, “mout” literally signifies “drop-dead” (that awkward moment when you realize that arabic happens to be a lot more easy to translate to english that it never had been to french (oh, and yes, I am a native french speaker)).