When I moved to Quebec to attend McGill, I knew I would have to learn a little bit of French. I saw this challenge as an exciting opportunity to learn something new – but I never imagined it would be so phenomenally difficult. French is riddled with words that sound exactly alike, yet have completely different meanings.

Consider, for instance, the French word for “without,” sans, and the French word for “100,” cent. These words sound the same to me, and I’m never sure if my friends are talking about going to the bar without me, or with 100 of me. To further complicate the issue, the French word for “blood,” sang, sounds exactly like the previous two words. Finally, the word for “sense,” sens, is also confusing. These similarities can make interpreting complex sentences such as, “We want to go without 100 bloody senses to the store” next to impossible.

The sans–cent–sang–sens phenomenon is not the only occurrence of similar phonetic sounds in the French language. Just the other day, when I went to order a sandwich, I was certain that the woman asked me if I had seen the kills (les tues), when in fact she was asking me if I wanted lettuce (laitue). I was so confused by this that I ended up ordering mushrooms on my sandwich when I tried to reply, “he’s a champion” – il est un champion.

When French people speak of their mother, they refer to her as ma mere, while the sea is la mer, and the mayor, la maire. When they decided upon these words, they didn’t consider the striking phonetic similarities. Now when I go to vote in municipal elections, I’m always confused as to why we need to vote for a new mother. I’m even more confused when my French friends tell me about what the sea told them this morning.

One of the most embarrassing incidents of mistaking French words occurred a couple of weekends ago. I was talking to a lovely young French woman at a bar, and we were hitting things off quite nicely. I noticed that she had a very nice, light complexion, and I told her so in my poor excuse for French: ta peau est comme le laid. Well, little did I know that “milk” is actually lait, and laid means “ugly.” She smacked me so hard that my tete spun en repete.

They say that French is the language of love, well I say mais non, moine sieur! – “But no, sir penis!” C’est la langue du similitudes! The French need to straighten up their language. It is becoming so difficult that they’re even having a hard time understanding it themselves. These two cultures, Quebec and France, are too pretentious to change their language – but it needs to change, and fast, before I end up telling my friend about the bier I had last night. Again.

Owners of the TomTom GPS navigation system can now choose to “roll down the street, sippin’ on gin and juice” with rap superstar Snoop Dogg (who does not, in any way, advocate drinking and driving) as their guide. The voiceskin is available for purchase from TomTom for $12.95. Snoop offers a departure from the generic voice of most GPS systems.

“It was really because when I be riding in the cars and I be hearing the boring-ass lady that be doing it all the time, it just be vibing me hearing her voice,” says Snoop, “I felt like this is something that’s big … to be in vehicles all over the world, where my voice is controlling the navigational system.”

Snoop’s voiceskin offers a more relaxed feel, with commands like “Sharp left, so fly” and “Bear left, yeah, just like that.”

Users of the GPS system can also look forward to potentially new features, including: Where Am I (What Street is This)? and Road Trip Eruption. TomTom subscribers can hope that more celebrities do voiceskins for the GPS service, such as Stephen Hawking, which might bear a striking resemblance to the original voiceskin.

Let me make things perfectly clear: I am a virgin. Never been kissed, disrobed, or had my hand held. Now let me make something even clearer: I’m not a virgin because no one wants to have sex with me, but because I’m incredibly good-looking – think an 11 on a scale of 10 – and I can get anyone I want.

Even though I’m a virgin in every conceivable way, I’ve had many awkward – and universally hilarious – experiences that I’ve decided to share with you in this column space. Let’s start at the beginning. I went on my first date when I was 18, a few months before I journeyed east for the bright lights of Montreal. Suffice it to say, it was life-changing.

I remember the phone ringing and my mother picking it up, shouting that it was for me. But I already knew that – it was Mr. Teen Supreme, my adolescent crush and the ex-boyfriend of my second best friend’s cousin’s uncle. Super awkward, I know.

“Want to go to the mall?” he asked. I shivered with delight. Goodbye virginity!

Mr. Teen Supreme picked me up in a Lexus at 3:57 p.m. He was seven minutes late, and I was freaking out. When he pulled into my driveway, I immediately walked to the driver’s side of the car, and the door hit me in the shins as he clambered out. I started to cry. Not a good start.

On the way to the mall I plugged my iPod into the car’s sound system, and we sped down Main Street listening to “My Heart Will Go On.”

We ended up watching Bruno after our trip to the mall, which was funny, but also a little uncomfortable because I was also a newcomer to on-screen nudity.

He drove me home and I thanked him for the “wicked ride.” Then came the moment of awkwardness I’d been dreading all afternoon: the leaning-backslap-fist-bump-hug. He leaned forward, and I followed suit. He extended one arm, and so did I. As I went for the full-body embrace, though, he turned away and mumbled something about not wanting to date an 18-year-old who had never watched a movie without her family. My face burned as I walked up the stairs to my room.

The next day, I spent hours reading the comments on his Facebook wall and trying to discern the extent to which he was plagued by self-doubt. I sent him a few messages, but that only resulted in him deleting me as a friend. I called his phone, then his mother’s phone, demanding that he grow a pair and provide me with a legitimate reason for breaking up. I never got through to anyone, and after a week, I realized that he had changed his number.

I never stopped thinking about Mr. Teen Supreme – I’m thinking about him now – and this is probably not the last time you will hear about him. Since then, I’ve gone on three other dates to the movies, usually with a group of girls. The thought of being sentenced to a lifetime of leaning-backslap-fist-bump-hugs keeps me awake at night, but as I bide my time waiting for Mr. Right, I can still offer you some of the best non-sex advice you’ve never needed.

McGill University’s Chief Medical Examiner Dr. John Bringham diagnosed three Tribune news editors and four McGill Daily editors with acute cases of Stockholm Syndrome on Monday. The Students’ Society’s biweekly Legislative Council meeting, he determined, was the chief cause.

“The diagnosis was clear,” he said. “At first, they hated SSMU Council, they desperately wanted their lives back. But after a few months, they fell in love with it.”

Tribune Editor-in-Chief Joel “Frat-boy” Drivel contacted Bringham two weeks ago following an incident at SSMU’s last Council meeting.

Council ended at roughly 10:30 p.m. As councillors and executives were leaving, the three Tribune editors and four Daily editors in attendance freaked out, throwing their Apple laptops to the floor, barricading the exit and demanding Council to reconvene.

“They were yelling, cursing, blowing smoke in our face,” said SSMU Councillor Mary Anne-Marie. “We weren’t allowed to leave, literally, they forced us to sit down, shut up, and adopt a new agenda. They were crazed.”

After adopting a new agenda, Council debated at length whether bottled tar-sand oil should be sold in Shatner. The meeting continued until security guards brandished the sign-in book at 1 a.m. Tribune News Editor Barry Mansfield tackled Jerry, bringing him to the ground. Police arrived shortly thereafter, arresting the three Tribune editors and four Daily editors. The editors were dragged kicking and screaming from the Lev Bukhman room. After the editors were processed, the police drove them to McGill Mental Health for further examination.