Mike 'Token' Younis

There, you got your mention.
Shit, man. I'm going to France tomorrow, for like a week. TO STAY AT SOMEONE'S FAMILY. Ah crap. I think that my secret will finally be revealed. The deep dark secret that has plagued me for most of my life. That secret: I'm Crap at French. I don't know why this hasn't been picked up yet by the teaching staff.
I know no vocabulary.
I can't write properly.
I can't conjugate verbs.
My grammatical skills are POOR.
I can only oral properly after thinking for a few hours about what I'm about to say.
Similar to my mathematics skill, I worked REALLY hard at French for two years to get into the damn school, then simply coasted my merry way through GCSE, without any real skill at the subject. I have forgotten it all. I don't even know the word for 'fork'. Or 'spoon'. Or, you know, any cutlery. What happens if I need a new pillow? Or I start bleeding from my ear? I don't know the word for ear. Argh. Why am I going to France to live with a bunch of frogs for A WEEK? I'm totally fucked. Deary deary deary me. I'm just gonna rely on the family speaking bad English, and me speaking bad French, and the two shit languages sort of working each other out. I guess.

But not as fucked as my mother thinks I'm going to be. Yes, she packs my bags. Yes, I know it's pathetic, but she doesn't seem to consider me capable of doing it properly. In fact, she apparently doesn't seem to consider me capable of bladder/sphincter control, judging by the list of things she packed. For SIX DAYS, she packed me:

Four pairs of trousers
EIGHT PAIRS OF UNDERWEAR
About 16 pairs of socks
Roughly 17,000 t-shirts
Some headache pills, just in case the French people haven't developed aspirin yet
Plasters. Yes, plasters.

Christ, Mother. And then, most irritatingly, she calls me downstairs to ask what she should pack, then tells me. And then frowns at me if I disagree. Ah, c'est la vie. AS THE FRENCH SAY. Oh crap, my imagination has now started working overtime. Here are the many bad things I could imagine taking place in France:

a: The French kid hating me. And then leaving me in the middle of nowhere.
b: Arriving there to find a gang-war going on inside the house, a la Luc Besson.
c: The French kid uses me as a drug mule.
d: Getting kidnapped and sold as a slave.
e: Accidentally setting fire to the house/breaking a family heirloom/making a hole in the wall.
f: Killing a family member by accident.
g: Sitting on the dog. Or getting bitten by one.

Yeah. So, I won't be blogging for many a day. Dear deay deary ME. I'm sure at least one person will die of boredom. Etc. Post comments on this if you miss me. It'll be like the answering machine method of my mind.

And Cassie, you'll be ok without me. *slides vibrator out of box cheekily*
Hahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahah.

Zombie Killer: A baguette.