Intellectual snobbery

Jean-Pierre took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette and let in a short hiss of breath before holding the smoke in his lungs and subsequently releasing it in a slow stream. He did this out of habit not because it allowed the nicotine its full effect, but rather because it was the most dramatic way to smoke.

He didn't even like nor was he addicted to cigarettes.

And his name wasn't Jean-Pierre. It was John. But he hated America and wanted to be French. Or at least French-Canadian. He thought this sullenly as he picked at the meaningless, poorly affixed patches on his sweatshirt.

John wasn't sullen because of the government that kept him down, but rather because of the fact he hadn't engaged in pessimistic discourse with his friends Hair's-Long-On-One-Side and Perma-Scowl for an entire two days. He was just about ready to grab and shout at the nearest Ambercrombie-clad passerby to relieve the pressure that his Philosophy 1009 class has built up inside him.

Bourgoise! Establishment! Proletariat! How can he find context with which to utter these words so hot babes will be drawn to him and his gigantic brain?

He figures that if he was in Canada right now, he'd totally be getting laid right now.