It's been an emotional month, Internet, OK?
‘What
are you doing?’ she asked down the phone.
‘I…
urm… I’m…’ Admittedly, I panicked. I sounded suspicious.
‘Laura?’
‘OKAY
FINE.'
I took a breath.
'I’M WATCHING THE VIDEO OF US ALL READING 84 CHARING CROSS ROAD WHILST DRINKING GRANITA, AND I’M IN A BAR BY
MYSELF WITH A SPRITZ THAT DOESN’T TASTE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU AND I JUST GOT A
PEDICURE WHERE THE LADY HAD TO USE THREE DIFFERENT TYPES OF SANDBLASTER TO GET
MY FEET AS PRETTY AS YOURS AND… OH. HOLD ON. THE BARMAID WANTS SOMETHING.’
The
barmaid was the same woman who ten minutes previously had asked a sweating (overweight)
gentleman to leave the establishment because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. As he
left she’d said, ‘How ugly,’ loud enough for him to hear it. She didn’t seem
sorry. If she wanted something from me, I was to oblige.
I did
talking with the barmaid and two confused Germans, and came back on the line.
‘Laura,
did I just hear you recommending wine to tourists for her?’ she asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘What
did they want?’
‘Something
full-bodied. I didn’t know how to say that in Italian.’
‘So
what did you say?’
‘I
said they wanted something like me, and then wiggled my bum.’
‘You
really are sat drinking all alone, aren’t you?’
I closed
my eyes and took the last drag from my cigarette. ‘I had to do something to
entertain myself. I’m dying here.’
It
feels like I am passed out on the beach of a Thai island after a really great
Full Moon Rave. I’m in a beautiful place where the sun is hot and the view all
kinds of crazy beautiful, but all the fun has already been, and gone, and now
all I have left is a chalky mouth and a hazy collection of memories that
my imagination may or may not have played with.
See
also: first-world problems.
Oh! Look at me! I had a really fun time
with my friends and now I’m sad it’s all over! So I’ll write about it on the
Internet because I’m living in a convent with a bunch of Italian speakers who I
don’t have the language to explain this to, so instead I’ll just order another
drink and cry into my iPhoto collection until the battery on my Mac dies! FUNSIES!
Internet?
I KNOW. I have to spend two months teaching English on the coast for four hours
a day, for a full paycheck and all my food and lodging. Woe is motherfucking me.
I
told my phone companion all the stories of my day. How my knee started to
twitch when the beautician sanded a particular part of my foot. How yesterday,
we made the kids wear wigs to sit their English Entrance Test because it was
more fun that way. How, by teaching only in the mornings, I have more free time
than I know what to do with, but I can’t go to the beach until I get a wax
because right now my pubic hair is lacing down to my knees.
‘I
booked in for an appointment tomorrow, though,' I explained over the phone. 'She said she’d have to charge me
double.’
‘You
disgust me,’ my friend said.
The
thing is, my entire life plan was to unveil itself here. Finish in Rome? Check.
Month of awesomeness with friends I wish I could keep? Check. Pass some time until I find out whether or not I
got the job I applied for come September? I HATE THIS PART.
Internet,
I have no life plan other than knowing that dinner is served at 7.30 tonight.
Nothing.
I’m
pretty sure the purpose of this post is to say that I am 26 years old, the only
money I have is that which is in my purse, and I live wherever my suitcase is.
My whole existence is in two half-unpacked bags on the floor of a convent right
now- and that’s another blog post entirely.
I’m
tipsy and nostalgic and worried about my future, and angry at myself for typing
the words worried about my future.
GIVE
ME SOME PERSPECTIVE, OH WISE KEYBOARD WARRIORS OF THE UNIVERSE.
Okay.
Fine. Advice to self:
1. Order another spritz. You are
not nearly drunk enough.
2. Buy a Paulo Coelho novel. The
forums on the Internet seem to suggest that.
3. Further investigate the
reliability of said forums.
4. Go ask the cute boy outside
for a light. A problem shared is a problem halved, right?
5. Don’t ask the boy for a light.
You are celibate and bored. That is dangerous.
6. Harden the fuck up and get the
hell over yourself.
Yes.
Number
six.
I’ll
do number six.
Right
after this drink.
… And
this cigarette.
Ohh, Laura. I don't think we ever stop worrying about the future, if it helps, Italian riviera or no Italian riviera. I'm 27, I live in a rented flat, I am single and have a job but want to be paid more, and all I do at the moment is worry about the future. No huge advice, except reassurance that we all wonder where it's all going, and usually after a while it all tends to sort of fall into place. Now, go talk to the boy outside.
ReplyDelete@Jo- And as somebody who I read regularly, and thus trust, as it happens, I will willingly accept what you say and breathe a little deeper. If you'll just excuse me to ask for the light...
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