Berthe Sylva sang that we are not every day 20, but at 20, every day Victor Wembanyama pushes the limits of the exceptional. Last night, the Frenchman became the youngest pivot in history to score 50 points in the NBA. As we found that the standards were too high for a young person of this age and that it could create guilt among some TrashTalk readers, we decided to zoom in on the day of a normal guy of twenty years old. Because we assure you, you are great, even without torturing Jonas Valanciunas on Wednesday evening!
Editor's note: of course, there is no normal day for a 20-year-old guy, the difference is the beauty of life, but we wanted to have a laugh, because humor… that's also the beauty of the life. Hey, but what makes life beautiful?
Let me introduce myself, my name is Henry, I would like to be left alone with this song when I introduce myself. I was born on January 4, 2004 in Chesney-Rocquencourt, but my life is not spent on the other side of the Atlantic.
I'm still in my Hauts-de-Seine, with Mom and Dad, it's still practical for putting money aside during my work-study program. The alarm went off at 7:50, but I had already been awake for half an hour because of my father's loud radio. One day she will end up in television and I will accuse Mohammed Henni, no wonder.
You will have understood, the mood is not very good. Plus I started the day seeing Norman Powell put a turd on my TTFL, I'm 8000th. I watch the highlights of Victor Wembanyama's match with sour cereals in bitter milk while my father shoots Leerdamer. Seriously, who eats cold cuts and cheese in the morning?
This week I'm at university, I dream of becoming…, well I don't know, but I'm studying business. I chose this route to forget, in the evenings, that I was not able to finish the previous sentence.
9:00 a.m., I'm in the lecture hall, it's November so there's only half the class left. The others? They play chess on their computers. I'm still fascinated by how big it has become since then. The Queen's Gameme, during the series, I spent my time wondering if I found Anya Taylor-Joy magnificent or terrifying. A question that also came up during Wednesdayand I'm asking myself this Wednesday, it's funny. What do you mean it’s Thursday?
The lunch break lasts 45 minutes and I waste 20 wondering if I want to eat Asian or a kebab, so I end up at the bakery. Fortunately the parents' restaurant ticket card is there because since when does a panini and a chocolate éclair cost €11.50?
Back in class and while I came to business thinking of selling pens as in The Wolf of Wall StreetI find myself having lessons on the proper use of LinkedIn. The next time I read a “Dear network”, I'm going to do a CAP Bakery, that way I'll have my free paninis.
End of day 3:00 p.m., and I feel like it's 6 p.m., it's more like winter time, it's Greenland time zone. The last time I saw a ray of sunshine, Carmelo Anthony was playing for the Knicks. Besides, I have his swimsuit for going to the gym. My session is going well, I have a determined look that suggests I'm listening to Kaaris while I'm watching Star Academy live, still disgusted by Noah's elimination last weekend. After an hour I stopped the exercise, I went to the gym for a little bit because, despite my adolescence, I am still self-conscious and very much so as not to feel guilty about the rest of the evening! So now that that's done, we can get down to business.
⭐️VOTING RESULTS:
????ULYSSE 41%
????MAUREEN 33%
????NOAH 26 % #StarAcademy pic.twitter.com/rxspw51HAC
— Star Academy 2024 (@EnolaStar2022) https://twitter.com/EnolaStar2022/status/1855031110516064387?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw
It's Thursday evening, my school has privatized a bar on Rue Princesse. For those who can't imagine, it's the Parisian version of Rue de la Soif, except that the rum and coke costs €11. So I meet up with my friends beforehand, with one goal: to arrive at the party in a state of fullness. For that, not a thousand ways to do it, a kebab, white sauce obviously, to line the bottom of the stomach and cans of beer whose selection was made according to the divine quality/cooked ratio. My stomach is swollen like Nikola Mirotic's lip after Bobby Portis.
The evening goes well, even if I see my crush fooling around with a guy who, objectively, is much more attractive than me, especially with the trace of white sauce that clashes with my black turtleneck. So how can you blame him? I reassure myself with the sentence which says that geniuses are often alone, when in truth I am wrong half the time when I am asked to calculate 6×7.
3:30 a.m., I crack up with the third passage of Free From Desire while mine makes washing machine movements on someone else's gums. I return alone in noctilien with Notes for too late of Orelsan in the ears to add a touch of nostalgia to my current blues. The driver is fighting with a drunk guy, nothing unusual at that hour, and I launch the NBA App hoping that Victor Wembanyama is playing.
Bad luck, it's a lousy night, and there's only a sad Jazz-Mavericks to get your teeth into. I put Kyrie Irving in TTFL like 85% of the community and after one quarter he is 1/7 shooting. But hey, at least tomorrow, I start at 11:00 a.m., there's always news that will make you smile!
