If one purchases a puppy, there is (from time to time) a counterintuitive emotional response that can be elicited from such a joyous occasion.  One may disturbingly find oneself overwhelmed with emotion that first day; despite the lovely creature foolishly scampering about, frolicking and being generally adorable.  It is possible to find that one is prone to crying… why? Because one day, that puppy will DIE.  This, dear reader, is because one is experiencing a most beautiful malaise and a metaphor for all things tragic, poetic and terribly terribly French.

Tomorrow morning I will arise at the ungodliest of hours – when all normal people are either sleeping or still partying – in order to make my way to Paris. We haven’t spoken since “The Incident at The Ritz,” but I’ve said I’ll overlook certain things in exchange for the destruction of the video footage. (Pretty much an entire chapter of my autobiography in one sentence.)

Because I love you so very much, I have created this spectacle for you of glorious Frenchness – partly because you deserve it for being so willing to suspend belief about me having a television show, and partly because I anticipate I will encounter a slight delay in my editing process, so those of you who have become accustomed in these two past (glowing, lovely, gorgeous) weeks to seeing TATV appear on a Monday/Tuesday.  Get yourself some sedatives (or alternately think of Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds’ secret wedding) and accept that it’s not going to happen. I have.

I’ll be doing fabulous things with fabulous people and it may stir some jealousy.  But for goodness’ sake, dry those eyes!  I’m only doing it for you, and it’s not like I’ve killed a puppy. 

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