Tuesday, July 10, 2012

dirty fingernails.

I keep a diary now and, like all my diaries, it sounds as though it has been written by a grumpy fourteen year old. Which I am, I suppose – a grumpy fourteen year old trapped in the body of a grumpy twenty year old. Except I’m not that grumpy. I’m just bizarre. But my diary? My diary is pitiful. Because it’s handwritten, it doesn’t allow for the copying, pasting and deleting that goes on behind the blogging doors. Instead, it’s me correcting myself after every other sentence - “No, actually, that’s not right…” However, it’s nice to have paper and pen at hand for all those strange musings that I conjure up during an average day of selling strawberries. (These musings include, but are not limited to, who I’m currently in love with, my calorie intake, and how much money I expect to have saved by September. See what I mean about being fourteen all over again?)

The pages are covered in red strawberry juices and patches of brown mud and are wrinkled in places from the rainwater hitting them. I’ve called this diary “A Murderous Desire for Love” because I think it sounds wonderfully dramatic. Really it’s just because I was listening to The Smiths and I thought, “Oh, that sounds like a good title for a diary!” It contains such gems as “I feel personally responsible when people don’t buy strawberries or potatoes” and “Is it possible to be enthusiastic and cynical? Or enthusiastic in your cynicism? Or cynical in your enthusiasm? I’m enthusiastic and some people are cynical of that. And I’m cynical about everything else.” I am obviously a philosophical prodigy.

I’ve fallen in love. That’s not true. I’m fallen in lust. Or in infatuation. Or love at first sight, if there was such a thing. Except there’s not. And it was second or third sight, really. But basically there’s this boy who cycles past almost every day that I’m selling strawberries by the side of the road and I think he’s pretty cute. He has facial hair and his trousers are a bit too short and I find it endearing. Do you have facial hair and a tortured soul? Apply now to be my boyfriend! Will require some kissing and moderate to high consumption of cider in fields. Great benefits (i.e. I’ve started shaving my underarms again).

In other news, I’ve started planning my 21st birthday party. I’ve already bought 100 heart shaped pink balloons off Ebay but I feel I may have overestimated the size of the venue. I think I’d be lucky to fit 20 heart shaped helium balloons in the upstairs of my local. But no matter! I’m also bidding on some cute bunting and saving up to buy some cocktail sausages to feed my guests. In fact, all the money I’ve earned so far has gone towards my birthday fund and I’ve spent little outside of buying credit for my phone. I haven’t had cider in so long that I fear I shall be rendered comatose after one pint on the night of my birthday. (Which would be hilarious.) But it will be nice to celebrate and to know that I’ve sponsored the night all by myself.

Am I an adult yet? It certainly feels like it. I’m waking up early and going to bed early and making sensible choices about my eating and my spending and my behaviour in general, which certainly makes a change. On the other hand, my skin has erupted into a cesspool of spots and blackheads so part of me thinks that I still might be a teenager in some respects. Hmm. Fourteen, obviously.

(Other things I’ve scribbled in my diary: “I seek approval but I’m not against notoriety. In fact, if it wasn’t for notoriety, my name might never be mentioned.”)

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