First time’s a bummer

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

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