Fluency and sincerity. Are they not one in the same? So you want me to learn your goddamn French language. Master false erudition while I'm still young, and all of that. And meanwhile I have no idea how to really swap words with poverty stricken minority groups. The bedraggled black man shuffling over to claim a fistful of nickels. I can't speak openly with the mentally ill. Even when I thought I was going crazy, when I likened institutionalization to springtime in Heaven, I couldn't have said a word. And I haven't spoken to my grandmother in three years. She's as old as sin. She'll be dead before I reach 25, no doubt. But I can afford to put it off another month, right? Just never had the time, yeah? I'm busy, full of energy, just living life. There never seems to be enough time to talk to Grandmother, about squirrels and slaves and the beautiful silk flowers at Grandfather's grave. With that in mind, I'll conquer linguistics only after I've had a conversation with my grandmother that doesn't end five minutes after it's begun, with me feeling like a criminal for raising the pitch of my voice to sound sweeter, happier, more understanding, full of love - because it's not there. I'm a phony. It's never been there. And if I wanted her to know the truth, I'd tell her how I'm paranoid and unfocused and lonely. I'd tell her that I've never felt her White God in the breeze. I'd tell her how I trifle ad nauseam over my teeth and hair, skin and body. I'd tell her how, if Satan were real, I'd accept his mark and go dancing on everything that used to mean something. I'd tell her how nothing is sacred, how no one is nice, how I already doubt the significance of my life endeavor. And you want me to learn French - a second language to ignore everything in. Not today. I am fluent in zero languages.