I'm so excited that I just farted as I squealed and a little bit of poop shot out.
In the past 48-hours I have bade a ciao for now to Italy, a country most probably never again to be experienced by me as an employee and best left to explore as a tourist who doesn't have anywhere to be so IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER IF YOU TAKE ALL AFTERNOON AND SIX PEOPLE TO SORT OUT THE TECH PROBLEM or THE PAPERWORK IS IN THE BACK AND YOU CAN'T BE ARSED TO GO FIND IT? OKAY! SURE! NO PROBLEM ITALY. HAVE YOUR MACCHIATO FIRST. I'll see myself out.
In six weeks I'll be sobbing tears of frustration that I ever left. Probably.
I landed Saturday night and promptly went for a McDonalds, then to bed without a shower, and I woke up seven hours later to move my life- moving, always moving- in glittered pink plastic boxes to my new home. Since leaving home at 19 (incidentally, to move in with my boyfriend. At 19. WITH MY BOYFRIEND.) I have lived with a lover, all on my own, with mum and dad for a bit, with people I met on the internet, with an American stranger who became a friend and out of my bag whilst in giro. I have never moved in with friends. Until now.
It is university-owed accommodation and wow. It's like Bob at the main office was just out on his lunch-break and somebody called- probably Liz, that bitch who never lets him get any peace- to tell him to swing by the paint store on his way back because the decorators could fit in doing up that room on the third floor. And Bob, pissed off as you like, what with having to finish off his egg and bacon wrap a bit quicker than he would like, walked into the paint store and picked up the first couple of pots on the special offer stand.
I have a lilac bedroom. I have a violet hallway. I have a baby pink kitchen. It's like a Tiny Tot doll threw up in here.
Hence, therefore, why my new life will proceed to be played out as Laura Jane Williams, c/o The House of Pastelle. Not pastel. The emphasis must be on the 'el' sound at the end. House of Past-ELLE.
It's where bitching comes as standard.