because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Saturday, 3 September 2011

Yeah. I’ve moved to Italy. No biggie (PSYCH!)

“Ready for the big move to Rome, then?” my friend asked me by way of email.

“Absolutely,” I wrote back. “I’ve got a couple of hundred Euro and a single packed suitcase. Let the adventure begin.”

I didn’t add that I am shitting bricks the size of baby elephants in anticipation of it all. I can say all the right things to the right people in order to make it seem like moving to another country to start a life for myself it like, totally chill, but well. You know. Moving to another country to start a life for myself is actually a pretty big deal according to my mother. And my bowels.

I got as far as the check-in desk of East Midlands Airport when the Ryanair official told me my bag was over the weight limit and I had to compensate by way of a fistful of cash that I don’t have. Fucking adventure my arse.

“I’ve already paid for an extra 5 kilos,” I explained to her.
“I see that,” she replied, “But you are over still. Do you want to take something out?”
“Can I do that here?” I asked, noting the winding line of hundreds behind me.
“If you are quick,” she told me, and so I manoeuvred my way through the straps and zips of the suitcase I stole from my parents and pulled out the first thing I touched.
“How’s that?” I said.
“Perfect!” she told me.
I went to put my treasure into my hand luggage. It was a bag of condoms, the weight of which had apparently been enough to take me a kilo over my luggage limit.

According to my vagina, I am anticipating this new life to be very fruitful indeed.

And all those people in the queue behind me? As my bounty was sealed in a see-through sandwich bag, they know it too. Behold, the power of my pussy! Grown men of war have weept at less. Airport staff tend not to give a shit, though. I was asked to move on quickly as there were, after all, many people waiting.

Two days, a gazillion apartments and MANY kilometres later, the decision on where to live all rests on my vagina. Shocker, I know. To live with the cute landlord, or the less cute landlord who charges less? DECISIONS. Also to be taken into consideration is the pecker of my roomie, too; a gay American who I met through work one evening in June. We both had wine in our veins and cigarette in hand as our idle conversation led us to screeching, “You’re moving to Rome? I’m moving to Rome! Do you want to be friends?!”

That quickly developed into becoming roomies, because we are both broke and every penny counts. Add to this a shared love for filthy American rap artists, perving on anything with a penis as long as it has its own teeth and a tan (urm, the owner of said penis, not the member itself. Obviously.) and a refusal to settle for anything less that absolute dry sarcasm at all times, and it’s kinda nice to have a partner in crime.

“But, what if one of us pulls?” I asked him, trying to figure out how sleeping in the same room might work.
“Then you get sexiled,” he replied. “Which means that if you need to get your rocks off, I’ll go drink a bottle of wine on the steps outside until you’re done.”
“What if it takes all night?” I asked.
“I’ll be too drunk to care,” he replied.
“Should we have a wanking schedule for the bathroom too?” I enquired.
He winked at me. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

In short, I think I’m gonna be just fine. If we ever do actually find a fucking place, that is.

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