As some of you may know, as we are currently pilfering through our Republican candidates like a pile of dirty left socks, France is having its own Presidential election. It is actually much the reverse of the American situation, as the sitting President is a much-mocked and incredibly unlikeable right-winger, Nicolas Sarkozy, who has made it abundantly clear that he and his gang of Ministers are not here to make friends, they are here to enforce a highly right-wing agenda. It’s up to the left here to dethrone the guy.

They have already had their primaries (within the major left party — formally known as the Socialist Party). Francois Hollande, beating out a rather lackluster panel of opponents (including his own ex-wife, awkwaaaard), has risen to the top as the one to beat Dear Leader Sarkozy. This is something of a problem, as Hollande has the general charm, panache, and ideological fortitude of a noodle you’ve left boiling for two minutes too long. A few of the other candidates, notably Martine Aubry, were briefly talked about as having the backbone it would take to stand up to the sitting President, but as she is ostensibly in possession of a vagina (and what is by all accounts an unforgivable haircut), she was stricken from the list for many French voters.

As a side note, we can hopefully all acknowledge how silly it is for some French voters (voters of any nationality really, but particularly those in Europe) to turn their nose up at female candidates. As we all know, Angela Merkel has become the de facto overlord of Europe with her tough-but-fair leadership, incredibly efficient economy, and the spine required to make Europeans give up on some of their social benefits/ 35-hour-work-weeks to get some real competition going. The average German is making less, but the country is doing much better. Can you imagine how difficult it would be to make that appealing to citizens? These are selfish human beings we’re talking about. Point is, Merkel has the biggest, sturdiest balls in the entire continent, and she’s not afraid to swing them around at all of the other foppish, aristocratic leaders when she needs to.

But I digress.

So Hollande is now up against Sarkozy — and you probably want just a touch of background about Sarko. Doing the usual Presidential thing, he didn’t make good on about 95 percent of his promises — though he seriously took a pick axe to the 35-hour-work-week, which is arguably a good thing. But what Sarkozy notably went in hard on (and this, it must be said, is the “conservative social issue” of any good European leader) is immigration. He was slick, in that he didn’t put any new laws on the books, but he enforced all of the existing rules that were, in practice, complete absurdity. Last year was an absolute disaster, with an approval rate of around 10 percent for immigrants who had done all of their studies in France, were hired by companies, and wanted to change their status from “student” to “salaried employee.” And let’s not pretend that those who were accepted weren’t often the “right” kind of immigrant. It was an absolute mess, but the numbers are starting to crawl back to normal.

So, he’s gotten a lot of left-hatred for that.

Then, you have his personal life. I’d bet that most of you know — if for no other reason than seeing him in pictures next to Obama — that he’s a tiny little man. He’s a tiny little man with an ego that would be out of place in a Nobel Prize-winning Ryan Gosling. He thus wears high heels in public, calls citizens “f-cking assholes” while on the campaign trail, and insists that only short people be put next to him in photo ops (tee hee). This does, however, contradict with his sports car of a 2006 campaign wife-choice, Carla Bruni. It’s true that she’s posed naked and slept with everything to ever hold a guitar, but that’s not what we care about. What we actually care about is a book called Rien de Grave. A few years back, Carla was living with her long-time professor boyfriend in Paris. They had been together for quite some time and were, by all accounts, very in love. She then left this man for his SON who was MARRIED with CHILDREN. Just, god, eww. So the former wife of the son who was apparently more desirable than his father decided to write this book, a thinly-veiled retelling of what happened, and Jesus — it is so messed up. So, yeah, say what you will about our First Lady — or really any first lady ever except Carla Bruni — but at least they didn’t do that.

Also, the two of them had their first kid together this past year, just before the primaries, and were all over every newspaper, magazine, and television in the country. WHAT INCREDIBLE TIMING.

You also have a lot of people who are still extremely upset because they believe DSK would have won the primary (likely) and been able to beat Sarkozy (debatable), and that he was set up by someone working for Sarkozy with his whole ridiculous sex scandal — but that’s a can of worms to be opened on another date.

And of course, like a brave knight riding in on the horizon wearing those all-white robes with the little eye holes cut out, you have Le Pen. Junior and Senior. Le Pen senior, a man, started the National Front party a ways back — largely created to house his racist, xenophobic, nationalist, separatist, crazyist beliefs. He publicly denied the Holocaust, blamed all of France’s problems on immigration, it was awesome. He’s been taken to court many times for hate speech, and though he is an absolutely incredible orator (so was Hitler), would never have a chance to win on any big election. His party, though, (NF is the extreme, extreme, insane right), does win local elections and always builds a large following in times of crisis — gotta find something to blame, right?! Why not people who look different than you?!?!

But you do have his daughter, who has taken over the party and is running for President herself as an outsider. See, she does have a chance — not to win, but to garner a ton of votes and exposure — because she is truly Le Pen Light. She has all of the hateful ideologies, horrendous platforms, and ass-backwards ideas for what France should do economically, but she’s able to bite her tongue in public and not say anything too egregious. Between the two, it is her who should be feared the most. She won’t win, but most French people are so unmotivated to choose between the two main candidates at hand, so she’ll probably make a decent-sized splash.

As an immigrant, I feel obliged to tell you how horrendous a possibility even that is. If the National Front were to do anything, they would immediately close all of France’s borders (to immigration and most trade), get out of the Euro, enforce (if not by law, at least by practice), a Christian leadership, and all but kill people of Arab descent in the street. (That last one may be a bit exaggerated, but not even, really).

So, France has its financial crisis, too. They have their election, too. They have their crazy right-wingers, too. But none of them have yet been renamed as a sexual neologism, so I suppose we still win.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

I went to Berlin on vacation a year ago. Because it was my first time in Europe I did all the typical touristy things, including indulging in the city’s numerous museums. I occasionally went high brow (i.e. giving devil horns at the Altar of Pergamon), but much of my time was spent at places that offered maximum thrills and minimum thought.

At some point I wound up at a sex museum. I was greeted first thing by a wall of plaster genitals, both male and female. While I was led to believe they all belonged to humans, I’m not entirely convinced. Surely no man could fit a ten inch member the width of a soda can into a normal pair of pants. But there it was pointing at me in the hall, along with several other startling configurations.

Berlin is unabashedly sexual. Ads for couples’ sex clubs were all over, porn played free on the hotel television, prostitution is legal and generally not frowned upon. The sex museum was no exception. I was embarrassed for half a second, until it occurred to me that I should probably abandon my puritan mores at the plaster dongs if I wanted to enjoy myself. From there I took it all in shamelessly, snapping pictures with abandon, laughing at slide shows, inspecting ancient sex toys.

My boyfriend and I came to a display that asked visitors to find the respective g-spots on mannequins representing either sex. The idea was you prodded the sweet spot on the mannequin’s body, then the thing would let loose with some prerecorded howls of pleasure. My boyfriend had the female mannequin wailing in seconds flat. I wandered over to her male counterpart.

“Male g-spot?” I asked myself aloud, before remembering where it was, or at least where it was rumored to have been.

This is not something I have a lot of experience with. Most American men don’t appreciate a finger in the bum. I remember a girl confiding in me that, after reading some ill-advised sex tips in a woman’s magazine, she tried this on her boyfriend. He commanded her to remove the offending digit and asked her to leave, even though it was in the middle of the night and they lived together.

While the female mannequin appeared multi orgasmic at the hands of my boyfriend, I could not find the male mannequin’s g-spot. It was just a smooth piece of plastic and the ins and outs of anything’s asshole, including my own, remain thankfully mysterious. But I finally found it. Boy, did I find it. The female mannequin was subdued in comparison, this thing went off like a land mine.

“OH YEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” it echoed across the quiet floor, causing everyone in earshot to whirl around and find me knuckle deep in a mannequin’s asshole. For a moment they all just stared and my previous lax attitude vanished. I could see it now; dumb American girl gives mannequin ball-shattering orgasm, gets kicked out of Europe. Or so I thought until everyone in the place started cheering, including my boyfriend.

A group of British guys came over to congratulate me on my apparent sexual prowess, giving me high fives and patting me on the back as they did. One dude jokingly held his hand up to his ear and whispered, “Call me.” I was the hit of the sex museum, which is saying a lot for a place featuring a 3-foot golden dong.

I left my new friends and walked on to some other exhibit, still laughing about what happened. On the way I could hear the orgasmic moans of the male mannequin, now quaking at the behest of the British tourists. While many other awesome things happened in Germany, this remains my favorite. How many girls can brag that the made an inanimate object come on their summer vacation?

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

This new music video from the Portland-based dream pop duo Mint Julep for their song “Aviary” is just mesmerizing. The directors play with the wigglegram or camera shift technique we see in a lot of gif animations, but give it a refreshingly different take by prolonging the effect across the span of a whole music video as well as running wigglegram against a regular film rate. Märkisches Viertel, a massive housing estate in Berlin, serves as the backdrop of the video and its plot revolves around three young girls adventuring from their homes, into the forest, to the edge of their town where they begin to try to wreak some kind of havoc. Only to return back home when the sun sets.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

England: “Presenting Kate Middleton (and her sister’s ass)”

France: “Foux da fa fa”

Germany: “Our sausages are huge”

Belgium: “In Bruges”

Luxembourg: “The best things come in tiny packages”

Spain: “Our goalie is hotter than yours”

Portugal: “Better than Spain”

Italy: “Come see our priapic clown! (But stay for the gelato)”

Czech Republic: “Existential crisis? Apply within”

Denmark: “Lars Von Trier is not a Nazi sympathizer, we swear!”

Sweden: “Ikea”

Greece: “Never pay tax again”

Cyprus: “Two for the price of one!”

Slovenia: “To violent crime: Slovenia says NO! ”

Croatia: “Get ready to party; recover in Dubrovnik”

Romania: “We’re not Communist anymore, plus we have the world’s second largest building in square feet. Beat that”

Bulgaria: “The home of Ken Lee”

Montenegro: “That place James Bond went to once”

Albania: “Feel free to blood feud”

Turkey: “We’ll be part of the EU soon, promise”

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

In Berlin last Friday a girl only identified as “Thessa” accidentally held a party for her 16th birthday that brought 1,500 young people, over 100 policemen, firefighters, and two small fires. Police spokesman Mirko Streiber told the press on Sunday that the size of the party caused Thessa to go into hiding, but that it was nevertheless “a hit.”

How might one accidentally hold a gigantic party that draws policemen on horses, 11 injuries and international news coverage? Thessa unintentionally forgot to make her Facebook event invitation she had originally meant to send to only a few friends private. From here, how the invitation managed to go viral is unclear. Here’s Huffington Post’s version of the story:

Thessa had initially only wanted to ask some friends over to her home in Hamburg-Bramfeld when she posted her invitation on Facebook, but mistakenly she published it so that everyone on Facebook could see it.

The invitation quickly went viral, and some 15,000 people confirmed online they would come to the party – without even knowing the girl, weekly paper Bild am Sonntag reported.

Not so sure that Thessa’s invitation could be seen by “everyone” – all 250 million users – on Facebook, but whatever – what a funny practical joke! By the time Facebook showed that 16,000 people planned on attending her event, Thessa’s parents made her publicly cancel the party and call the police. They also hired a private security firm to guard their home on Friday night. But of course, the Germans – being, well, German – still found a way to party.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

Lars von Trier is undoubtedly one of the best filmmakers working today. He’s also one of the most controversial, both with his films – Antichrist, the last film he showed at Cannes, caused a lot of people to walk out of the theater – and with what he says to the public. His latest film, Melancholia, is actually getting a less divided response than Antichrist did at Cannes two years ago, and is generally being well-received at the legendary film festival.

However, in a major WTF moment at a Cannes press conference, the Danish filmmaker really put his foot in his mouth. In a response to a question about his German roots and his interest in the Nazi aesthetic, he replied:

The only thing I can tell you is that I thought I was a Jew for a long time and was very happy being a Jew, then later on came [Danish and Jewish director] Susanne Bier (After the Wedding), and suddenly I wasn’t so happy about being a Jew. That was a joke. Sorry. But it turned out that I was not a Jew. If I’d been a Jew, then I would be a second-wave Jew, a kind of a new-wave Jew, but anyway, I really wanted to be a Jew and then I found out that I was really a Nazi, because my family is German. And that also gave me some pleasure. So, I, what can I say? I understand Hitler. I think he did some wrong things but I can see him sitting in his bunker.

At this point, Kirsten Dunst, one of Melancholia‘s stars, exclaimed “Oh God!” and tried to hide behind von Trier. The director continued:

I’m saying that I think I understand the man. He is not what we could call a good guy, but yeah, I understand much about him and I sympathize with him … But come on! I’m not for the Second World War. And I’m not against Jews. No, not even Susanne Bier. I am very much for them. As much as Israelis are a pain in the ass. How do I get out of this sentence? Okay, I am a Nazi. As for the art, I’m for Speer. Albert Speer [the Nazi architect] I liked. He was also one of God’s best children. He has a talent that … Okay, enough.

Sometimes, when you put your put in your mouth, it’s difficult to get it out, and it just gets worse. That’s what happened when von Trier was asked about making a blockbuster and he responded, “Yes. We Nazis like to do things on a big scale. Maybe I could do the Final Solution.”

The director later admitted to the Associated Press that he was basically kidding about the Nazi thing, explaining that “I don’t have so much to say, so I kind of have to improvise a little and just to let the feelings I have kind of come out into words…This whole Nazi thing, I don’t know where it came from, but you spend a lot of time in Germany, you sometimes want to feel a little free and just talk about this (expletive), you know?”

A full list of von Trier’s foot-in-mouth moments is available at Vulture.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

Werner Herzog is a German filmmaker born on September 5, 1942.

Many of Werner Herzog’s films have either won or been nominated for awards of varying prestige.

Lightbulbs have terrified Werner Herzog since he was a child. Cave of Forgotten Dreams, his latest 3-D release about the Chauvet Cave in southern France, was almost a 94-minute shot of a lightbulb (still titled Cave of Forgotten Dreams, still in 3-D).

Every time a Waka Flocka Flame song plays, whether the listener is aware of it or not, they will experience two to eight thoughts Werner Herzog has thought. Every time a Waka Flocka Flame plays around Werner Herzog he feels uncomfortable but doesn’t know why. Immediately after viewing Herzog’s Land of Silence and Darkness, Waka Flocka Flame retreated to his room for a week and denies seeing the film to this day.

Werner Herzog likes to keep his film crews small.

Sometimes Werner Herzog has people in his documentaries act in addition to just being themselves, to create what he calls “ecstatic truth.”

The best way to avoid an attack from Werner Herzog is to burrow deeply into a three-foot-tall hedge. If a hedge isn’t nearby, hiding behind any three-foot-tall object will suffice, though it is advised to stay as still as possible in these instances.

“There is something about my face that is sinister,” said Werner Herzog in a 2006 New Yorker profile.

Werner Herzog has been married three times.

Werner Herzog has successfully shortened every Tuesday in the Western Hemisphere by 15 seconds.

One can simulate the acoustics in Werner Herzog’s mouth by standing in a minimally furnished eight-foot by eight-foot room with 83% humidity.

Werner Herzog claimed he would eat his shoe if Errol Morris ever completed his 1978 documentary about pet cemeteries, Gates of Heaven. When the film was completed, Herzog boiled his shoe and ate everything but the sole, claiming “One does not eat the bones of the chicken.” Les Blank directed a short documentary, Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe, based on this incident.

Werner Herzog has never angrily said “Stop worrying about your ankle, your ankle is fine” to his mother.

Shortly after the birth of Werner Herzog’s son, Simon, bananas grown in Ecuador were an average 10% chewier. Bananas grown in Costa Rica experienced no significant texture change, though some farmers noted a shorter ripening period.

Werner Herzog played an audio recording of former wildlife advocate Timothy Treadwell getting eaten by a bear in front of Treadwell’s ex-girlfriend in the 2005 film, Grizzly Man.

Areas influenced by Werner Herzog often appear lively and flourishing due to recurring patterns of one “decoy” near two “originals.” This phenomenon, commonly referred to as the Herzog Effect, is so subtle that it often goes unnoticed, though once recognized seems obvious and easy to detect. Most notably, Best Buy has taken advantage of the Herzog Effect by including one formerly functional cell phone in every group of three display phones.

In 1975, the Grand Prize of the Jury was awarded to Werner Herzog at the Cannes Film Festival for The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, a film about a man who mysteriously appeared in Nuremberg barely able to speak or walk and later reveals he had escaped from a dungeon in which he had been imprisoned for unknown reasons.

A phone number is available on the “Contact” page of Werner Herzog’s website.

Pert Plus’ quality control department once recorded a 54 minute phone call from Werner Herzog complaining of a filmy residue left on his scalp from the shampoo in addition to its “disappointingly low lather.” Rumors have generated around the call’s audio recording due to an unexplained 20-second silence preceding Herzog shouting “…of a self-contained man against the [either “terrors” or “herrings”] of the world” and hanging up.

For nearly seven hours while shooting Wheel of Time, Werner Herzog emitted a frequency astrophysicists first mistook for signals originating in a mass of potentially intelligent light waves delivering a message that the universe had finally stopped expanding.

In addition to filmmaking, Werner Herzog has written books and directed operas.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

Back in December I set up and supervised the post-apocalyptic oil drum fires at a movie screening on urban decay that the magazine where I was interning organized in an abandoned warehouse. As always happens at these kind of events, I found a certain girl there. She had oversized frames, rubber boots and a nondescript jacket that was obviously chosen with great care. My tall friend supplied the rum we needed to keep warm as the fires died out. As the girl got more drunk, she kept playing songs by Bonaparte (from Berlin, where else?) on her iPhone. That is how I got to know the song “Gigolo Vagabundo” by said band. Since then, I’m really trying to make it the soundtrack of my life.

This desire to live to the fullest under the postmodern condition, to live at the converging edge of time and space if you will, is why I’m now chilling on the balcony of the apartment where I’m renting a room in Munich, watching the sun set over the river Isar. It’s my fourth address so far this year. My official excuse to be here is that I’m doing a case study at a company for my BA thesis, but really I’m just trying hard to live the life of a 21st century nomad. It’s a fun life. I get to see things, meet people, think about stuff and experience lots of peculiar details that put different places and episodes in relation to each other.

Here in Munich it’s tricky though, because this city is so… functional, for lack of a better word. They even call it “Toy Town” because everything is so clean and runs so smoothly. Like, when I was in the English Garden the other day, thousands of people were chilling in the bleak spring sun. Nothing strange about that, but I got this feeling that they were all doing it with such an immense sense of purpose. Maybe you have no choice but to chill like that when unemployment is at 1 percent? Someone told me that, but it was after a few one liter pitchers at the Hofbräuhaus, so the figure is probably higher. The same dude, when sober, also told me about prostitution here. It is legalized and enjoys powerful police protection. The girls have to test themselves rigorously twice a month and if a customer asks for their test protocol they must present it. The final piece of the puzzle: the taxes imposed on this lucrative business add up to over 60 percent of the income.

The sex trade makes me think again of Amsterdam, where I lived last fall for my internship. Of course, the business there is much more in your face than in Munich. I stayed in the eastern the part of A*dam (Since Dutch is a ripoff of English, “ster” means star and can be conveniently replaced by the asterisk), which is officially named the Indian Ward. Not so many hookers around, but living there had another effect, relating to how places appear to merge. Living in the ethnically diverse East Amsterdam made me give up on supermarkets. I now get my groceries and veggies at the Turkish-ish neighborhood stores instead. They are way more consistent across countries, and often cheaper. Do I miss screaming ads in purple and orange offering me 3 for 2 vanilla, milky fudge, raspberry flavored yoghurt, now with an extra sting of strawberry cheesecake? Not really. Do I enjoy the surprise of finding out that my breakfast buns come baked with pockets of sour cheese? Yes, indeed.

Back to here and now on the balcony: I’m drinking my temporary flatmate’s bio-chai tonight, hypnotizing myself with Markus Haupt’s (from Leipzig, also famous for its street art) basslines and pondering this week’s investment decision: Is 13.40 euros a fair price for four hours in a German, meaning public, mixed and butt naked, jugend architecture style sauna from the year 1901? It probably is, objectively. Subjectively, are the Heidis (tall, sporty, yet curvy brunettes with a mysterious cream skin tone) I could peek at through the steam worth exposing myself to the Fritzs (short, round, mumbling men with hair in all the wrong places)? They are. I suspect the place will also be full of tourists and thus offer some cross-cultural ogling and comparison, which is always interesting. In addition, as a modest Euro-something-boy I don’t rate myself as someone other people would be too excited to look at, so the visit to the sauna is an easy win for me.

Oh, now I just discovered that a bus transfer to Czech Republic with Greyhound wannabe Eurolines is on sale for 9 euros. Absinth-powered weekend in Prague with my friend the Italian womanizer who breeds wolf dogs? Reminds me of that one time in that one place. I better get packing.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

When her parents refused to buy her a horse, this 15-year-old German teenager decided to train the family cow instead. It took a couple of years, but the girl, Regina Mayer, eventually taught the cow to follow commands, jump over fences, and otherwise behave more or less like a horse. Aside from being cute and funny, it’s an interesting case of animal psychology, kind of like that tiger that raised piglets.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.

I first met Cathleen about two years ago, the summer after I came back from my study-abroad semester in Berlin. We were both volunteering for the Media Film Festival (MFF), a small affair organized by some amateur film enthusiasts and business owners who live in that region known as “the main line.” She was a student at Swarthmore College living in the area for the summer, and I was living with my parents in nearby Bryn Mawr until I could go back to Chicago to complete my final year there.

My duties included taking tickets and greeting filmmakers at the festival “headquarters,” which was a coffee and sandwich shop called “House of Joe.” Joe was on the board of directors for the festival and the principal source of capital, because apparently his place gets a lot of business from college students in the area. Joe really had no business being a film festival curator. Once when I was on duty he was looking at a submission for next year’s festival and he said dismissively, “this has some cool images but there’s no story.” I cringed a little at the thought of this plebeian making decisions that affect the careers of serious filmmakers. In truth, being a student of media, I felt like the whole thing was beneath me.

In the evenings after all the films were finished, I went out for drinks with other volunteers and the visiting filmmakers. Receiving free drinks was not beneath me, and I profited as much as I could. It was on one of these outings that I met Cathleen. She was talking with one of the visiting filmmakers who I had befriended, and I interrupted their conversation when I overheard her talking about studying abroad in Berlin. As it turns out, she studied there the semester before me and knew a lot of Americans whom I had met while I was there. My filmmaker friend gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘I was trying to bring it, but OK.’ He excused himself and went inside.

She persisted in speaking German with me, which was entertaining at first, but it began to grate at me because it doesn’t facilitate conversation to speak in a language that you’re not fluent in. “There are just some things that I can’t express in English, you know? But I find the words in German,” she said, in English.

“No, I don’t know, but whatever.”

She invited me to her place and I obliged. She lived with some white Buddhists – “the Zen house,” she called it, although she was not a Buddhist herself. She was one of those girls that likes yoga and has what I refer to as “the yoga poise” – you know the type: they’re cerebral, have good posture, are probably vegetarian or vegan, and are usually humorless. I had not yet formed an opinion of her. I thought she was cute and I did appreciate her forwardness, but there was something annoying about her, too.

We spoke about love and life and our time abroad. We were both in complicated long-distance relationships and we were feeling frustrated. I was flattered that she spoke so openly about her love life, and I wondered just what message she was trying to send me. Finally, I left, because I couldn’t see where it was going, and she was tired.

I went back to the bar because the party was still on, and my colleague asked what had happened. “She has a boyfriend,” I said. “Oh, damn, they all do,” she said. I appreciated her a lot when she said that, and we drank on into the night.

The following afternoon at the film festival headquarters I received a call from Cathleen. She invited me over again to watch a German film with her that night. Hm, I thought. This is encouraging. Again I obliged. The night played itself out not unlike the night before, except after a long, self-consciously deep conversation about love and life, we got on her bed to watch the movie on her laptop. Time passed, and I started snuggling with her. I paused the movie and planted one on her. I was feeling turmoil in my loins. We caressed each other. “I don’t feel comfortable with you kissing me,” she said. “I’m in a weird place,” she added, by way of excuse.

“OK,” I said.

We continued on as before minus the kissing. Then I planted another one on her and she was into it this time. After a while, she said “we have to stop now. I don’t think this is appropriate, considering our situations.”

“I agree,” I said.

“But I still want to hang out with you,” she implored. “We should keep watching German movies.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I will continue to make advances if I’m in this sort of situation.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “I know my limits and I like the way you snuggle.”