Ten days ago I turned six million years old and my colleagues baked me cakes. Since sugar is clearly my soulmate (and also the reason why I’ll be forever alone) this made me extremely happy. The spanish team and the italian one opted for some crunchy chocolate cake and a delicate strawberry one.
The term Bananasunday indicates one of those Sundays when you’re not in the mood to eat out, your fridge is empty (except for that yogurt that expired four months ago), you don’t have cash for pizza delivery and the only edible thing in your house is a banana.
The day ends often (but not always) with an attempt to eat toothpaste.
I would have set on fire every word you’ve ever told me. Starting with the W of What’s your name? ’til the Y of I’m sorry. Dipped your voice in gasoline and watched every letter of every lie coming out of your mouth as it would burn to the ground. They were as empty as these shelves, and still I wanted to escape their meaning.
Just when I thought I had found the ultimate tagline for my life, my best friend gave me this t-shirt as a birthday present and shattered all of my beliefs.
So what happened in the office is that Laura, a french intern, ended her time in the company. We wanted to do something special for her farewell party, something unique, something that would leave her good memories of us traumatize her forever.
Nat (blogger and evil genius) had the right idea, but she needed a doll to put it in action. The casting went on for days: we were looking for a fresh face, someone the audience would like and who could bear the complex, tortured role we had in mind. When my little helpers sent me a picture of Steffi Love (directly from a shelf in Woolworth, the new place to be in Berlin) I knew she was the one.
It’s true: all good things must come to an end. The best tv series come to jump the shark, Alanis Morissette records crap like this, BFFs become names you find on your cellphone without recalling who they are and love, above all things, is anything but endless.
What’s actually endless, though, is the debate on whether it’s easier to get dumped or to dump your beloved one. We’ve all played both parts at one time or another (although there’s some seriously dangerous serial dumpers out there!) and it was never easy.
Personally, I find especially difficult to be the one who dumps. The most memorable time, also known as “the time I almost died”, was probably when I dumped R.
“I wish I knew the names of the stars”, I said, and you said “Do you think they know yours?”. And then the night was darker than I thought and the sky a still life that refused to move. I wanted to shake it like I wanted to shake my own life and kiss you on the lips when you weren’t expecting that. But I’m a pile of unwished wishes and all those shooting stars that we were promised are really shooting blanks. So tell me why we can’t hold hands. Or take a stand. The grass is scratching our backs and I still wait for you to figure out why I’m holding my breath. But I can’t really wish on a plane. Neither on bicycles lights that keep passing by and distracting us. If only something happened would you remember this?