A bouquet of hit-me-nots

March 31, 2010

The day of my graduation went as every ceremonious occasion in my life – full of stubborn tears, torn up shoes and plain awkwardness. I entered the huge auditorium in a Mrs. Adams/Elvira kind of black ball gown. I might as well could of carried a coffin for a clutch with me, because for a hot June’s day, snuggled between pink, fluffy blonds, I attracted 500 stares for not very flattering reasons. When the ceremony ended, I was happy to leave, because my father, being too lazy to put on his suit, was sitting in front row looking like a lumber jack, trying to fall asleep, so he wouldn’t think of cigarettes, that of course, for a professional addict would be a nerve wrecking 2 hours.

After the ceremony, I leave, carrying a bunch of flowers, most of which were from my grandmother. As I walk along my school, I pass all 48 proud families taking pictures of their freshly baked graduates. My few relatives have left for a smoke or a change of slippers. I walk back home by myself, feeling a small tremble of sadness in my head.

I go buy 4 bottles of champagne, resting the bottom of my long dress on my arm. I can see how the elderly ladies stare at me, their eyeballs  almost hanging over the tip of their noses, but later exhaling in relief when they notice I don’t have a scythe with me.

I go back home, stop by the missing kitchen door. My dad’s sitting by the table, crouched over like he was the number 6, resting his tired head in his palms, puffing away one cigarette after another. I try not to think about it. I have to leave soon. Flay away soon. I know I’m his only friend. I’m his best friend.

“Papa, don’t worry, I promise to wear the dress again, it’s not a one event stupid purchase.”

He looks up with a crooked smile, his blue eyes still showing no sign of joy, just tracks of a very long time.

I go to my room, to try to swallow the knot in my throat. Later on, some friends stop by, to raise a glass or two with me.

When they leave – each with their own ridiculous excuse of a stay-in Saturday night, I start to regret not going away with my classmates to celebrate, seeing that It’s only 11pm, I’m alone with my cat and the only good news is, that I have plenty of cigarettes to last me at least for a week.

Just as I unzip my dress, my phone is shouting of a call. The bloke I’m barely friends with, but share some music with, is coming over.

We drink a bit, and then get a taxi for free with his biological father, as he calls him, to a party by a lake. We arrive and the first thing I notice is a floating dance floor. A huge wooden plank tied up in strings, swinging around like it was the inspiration for  “row, row, row your boat”.

After a liter of bloody Mary’s it seems a good idea to go and challenge the plank with our killer dance moves.  For 20 minutes I laughed so hard I lost any feeling in my face and I believe that my two lower ribs have lost their primary function of holding me together. It was sunrise, and the lighting was gorgeous to witness how my friend tripped and flew off the dance floor into a trash can. When he didn’t get up, I knew he’d fallen asleep whilst tumbling over.

Moments later, it’s my time to stumble. I land on my knees, then on my elbows, and then my face gets smashed into the wooden floor. I sit up checking if my teeth are all in place. ’31, 32… YES!’ and start to laugh. Oops… here comes the blood. Spitting my way to an empty mouth, I leave the dance floor to buy a shot of vodka, to sterilize the lip I’ve split right open.

Then I sit with him, looking at the sunrise and feeling ashamed as it’s lighting up my torn up and drunken face. He’s moaning and swearing of his filthy pink shirt. I laugh and give him a wet willy. He pushes me over the bench and I hit my head.

We hear a bunch of guys coming our way, they take a seat by the fire. My friend’s face changes from constantly confused, to deeply angry, his cheeks even have a hint of purple.

“See that bulky guy in the red t-shirt? When we were in primary school, he bullied all of the kids and I think this is a sign. I think I have to take revenge. That turtle poop has to pay.”

“Wait… but you’re 25.” I laugh like I’m being tickled. When I get myself together he’s already gone over to the bloke and the next thing I know he’s giving it to him right in the kisser. My friend being a gentle Gypsy-like soul, is pinned to the ground seconds after his sucker punch.

He comes back with his lip bleeding. I stare and burst in hysterical laughter. “It’s like looking in a fucking mirror! You fucking twat!”

“It’s not over yet, even if it takes all day, he’s gonna pay.”

“Listen, don’t be silly. He’s huge, and you’re in a pink shirt. You might as well could go and try to poop out a house. It’s just not happening.”

And again, he goes over, this time he returns with a bleeding nose and ripped shirt. Still undefeated.

It goes the same for at least 5 more rounds. I lie back in the sun and call my dad, to come pick us up.

When it’s all over, we leave the lake bruised, ripped, drunk, and pathetic. We step in the car and on our way home, we’re silent. When we part, we say nothing, we laugh.

In conclusion, it’s always a nice feeling to have all of your teeth and a friend to make you show them more often.

So – have you guys had any stupid injuries during last summer? What kind and how?

Thank you,

Love, Geneva

First time’s a bummer

March 30, 2010

Hello, my name is Geneva.

Before I started writing, I checked out the most viewed and most popular blogs here. “News, 10 people dead, iPad, ice-skating, zits and beer, basketball, my boyfriend’s a wanker” were the ones that popped up the most. So I’m not entirely sure of what I’m doing here and if it is worth a single second of your time.

Lately, my head has been a burden of an organ, so full and too crowded, so I decided to trap my demons and giggles in here – between words and incorrect punctuation. And to make matters worse, I get myself in to very awkward and embarrassing moments by not knowing my limit – either it’s booze or words, both turn in to vomit if overdosed.

Anyway, I’ve been sent out to London, to babysit my two, rather spoiled cousins. I’ve been dragged out of my bohemian bedtime regime and put in to a dimension where a pint of beer is further, than nirvana for a toad.

Now, when I’m trying to get a kid in to a Ben 10 pyjama whilst yelling all over the house to make the other one brush his teeth, I drown myself in nostalgia of those days, although only a week ago, I spent in my favorite pub watching football and waiting for a change in my life.  I drift away for a bit and then a loud, miniature human being, jumping on the bed is screaming: “BEN 10! TA TA TA! BEN 10!” Who the flipping fuck is Ben 10? Sounds like a short cut for an ID card or something.

But still, I enjoy every task I’m given. All I have to do is imagine myself being the perfect person, for that certain occasion. For three weeks I’ll be Mrs. Magarelli – a 40-year-old Italian widow, who’s rather filled in her figure, but still very sexy. She strolls around the house in a floral print deep-cut silk blouse, fluffy slippers and when dusting the bottom shelves, her pink thong pops out to say hello in a ditsy kind of manner. She refuses to listen to any questionings of her appearance, because by the end of the day “I get the job done betterrrr than any of yourrrr’e stupida previosa bebe-sittere!”

Mrs. Magarelli’s hands have been all worn out, because she bleaches stuff with no gloves on. “Gloves? HA! For sissy!” she would say. The kids respect her, because even the tiniest mishap would trigger the bastard tape recorder in her vocab. “You throw sock at me? AAH! BASTARDO! You must come from your mothers left tit! All squishy silicone! BASTARDO!”

But I remain my old self. Trying not to piss anyone off by opening the fridge or making the kids do their homework. It’s a fine life in a fancy London house. It’s a fancy feeling to be boring for all the ‘right’ reasons.

So, what I would like to ask you, is – who would be the last person on earth you would ever want to be your relative? And why?

Hope you are having the most wonderful day,

love, Geneva