Damn you.

Good people should be a little bit stuck up.



Sitting by the bar in a dark room with no air, drinking water from a glass that looks like it contains a dry martini (without the olive), and slowly eating a sandwich with ketchup between the two soft slices of ”Franz Premium white” bread. In a room somewhere else in this building, behind it’s white cracked walls (they keep the memory of the earthquake fresh and clear) , there she is, sleeping, making weird sounds that I sure don’t make when I sleep, sounding like my old grandfather when he comes down the stairs in our old house grumbling something about the good ol’ days. I wish I could sleep like her. Lying on my back, acting like I’m dead, and looking like there is not a thing in the world that could bother me. Instead I’m sitting here, behind he same white, cracked walls, but wide awake, and wandering what i’ll be doing at the exact same time, 04:27 am, a month from now. I’m wondering i I’ll be sleeping (Yeah right, that’s likely!), and if I will have something better to do than sit around typing on my love with the left hand, eating my fifteenth ketchup-sandwich for the evening, and drinking fake-martinis while pretending to be James Bond. I probably won’t. Tomorrow it would be a great idea to go across the street to QFC and buy ”Franz Pemium white” for amost all my money, they’re at half price right now. I can buy a lot and freeze ’em, it’ll last two months if i buy enogh to fill the whole freezer. Oh, and yeah, I have to get some ketchup to. That’ll make my day. I should get brilliant ideas like this more often... huh.



GAWD. I’d like those sassy levi’s-jeans I saw the other day, and maybe the $400 James Dean Lees, damn it they were cool. It’s all in the jeans you know. When my ”ACNEs” were still wearable, I could do anything. Like the ”attacking strangers with sassy shoes, and asking them to go for a cup of coffe”-thing. That was totally not a big deal. But now, when my JEANS are RIPPED, I’m suddenly acting like a stupid meaningless ant, just waiting for someone to come and kill me. STEP ON ME. I’m crushed easily.



I bet you didn’t expect this from me. I bet you expected me to be something better. Something to hold on to. Like the handle on a suitcase filled with money. I guess you were expecting me to be something that you could give to da fat guy in da ol hood, were yo mama n ol homies that yo ain’t speaking to anymo, are at. But I’m still a pretty face on pretty legs, for what that’s worth. You can buy me a mercedes and a gucci-purse, then you and I will look just fine together. You and I. Damn. It’s only me here.



It’s me, my ketchup, fake-martini, imaginary bartender and a piano I don’t know how to play any longer.



Love



/Mary Poppins