Spring cleaning.

Among all the things that made up my flat and peaceful north country life, there’s almost nothing I regret leaving. However, things happen at double the speed, here in London, and sometimes it’s just so difficult to keep up with everything. I, myself, feel as if I could collapse at any moment now; and I have always been so good at endurance tests.

My flatmate and I could write a whole novel about all the crazy and dodgy people we shared houses with, and still the past two months can't be described as other than reality overcoming fantasy.

Now that things look almost on the right track, I can unveil the mystery: the Problem I mentioned in my last post was a person: a tacky orange-haired drama student, double-faced as a rattlesnake and dirty as fuck…ok, ok, no more spite, I promise. But here’s some advice, if you are keen on taking it: should you ever meet someone who fits the description, just stay away.

On Saturday she vacated her room and ran away in a rush, stealing our modem in a pathetic attempt of a last laugh. Well, honey, hope you enjoyed it: it was a nice try, but see, we’re all still here.
That during the very next half hour we were utterly and literally upset, it’s a fact that I won’t deny. But how come, then, that hardly one hour later we were already sitting in the kitchen, laughing out loud while we were restoring the civil appearance it had lacked for so long and pulling jokes about the amount of junk food she left behind? (yes, if you ask, we have also eaten tons of pizza and drank white wine. But that came later…)
Memory, you’re a bitch as few others. But let me grant you some credit, here: as if it hadn’t been for your power of erasing bad sensations and keeping the good ones, I would have shot myself not too long after discovering that the whore left us without the modem that’s in my name.

So here I am, now: enjoying a moment of pure peace, looking at the sunny day that’s shining outside my window, inviting me to a liberating stroll. Mrs. Guilty Conscience warns me, and the dialogue is quite surreal:

- Come on, girl, you really shouldn’t, how about your studies then?
- Come on, Mrs. C., it's Sunday.I dare you to find an open library now, and as you probably know I can’t work from home…
- Huh, so what’s your plan? Dressing up and going shopping in town? With a presentation due in two weeks, that you haven’t even started yet?
- Exactly, I’ll treat myself to a pair of shoes. To your face, to the face of the modem thief -  and yeah, of the business teacher as well.

It’s as if I had forgotten that I’m only 23, and forced myself into an adult shape in which I don’t fit at all. I cannot count for how long I have been waking up in the morning, repeating to myself no more weight of the world on these shoulders, please, not today…and at the end of the evening, there it was, again. 
Well, it’s over – alright, it’s not, it never is; but everything looks clearer, without the mask of Gloom on my face. And today, this week, I want to spoil my child inside.

I’d like to have endless runs in the fields, have rides at the fun-fair, walk in the sun eating a frozen yogurt topped with huge amounts of candy – as England’s no land for proper ice cream, alas.
I  miss my mother’s hugs, light-hearted promises, plans for holidays, feeling free. Just like when I was a child, I think – and here she comes again, the traitress: for I can tell you my childhood was everything but that. 

Sure, it had its delightful moments, but I should be aware that for most of the time it was about being called drag and fat geek by other children, and being chosen last at team games because I was the one who ran the slowest. Not to mention the fact that, if I asked my mother for a frozen yogurt while walking in a park, she would reply with a glaring look and a harsh keep quiet, I’m surely not going to waste money on that. I’m not sure she even had the time to take me to parks, for that matter. So what the hell?
Memory, who else. She did a damn good job with me, that’s sure.

I must thank memory if I keep writing, and if I don’t break down even when I’m sure that I have reached the lowest of lows. If I’m here, patiently waiting for lunchtime in a room that hadn’t felt so reassuring for months, going through all the wonderful times I had here in London and yes, those I had in the past as well.
I’ll thank memories if I get my beloved shoes today, and if I come back home with the feeling that I have to celebrate the end of the hardest of times rather than sitting down and creating a new modem from scratch as if I was called McGyver. Eventually, I’ll thank memory if I’ll ever get my frozen yogurt, because I hadn’t been thinking about that for ages, before it came out of nothing the other day.

(on air: Bright Eyes - At the bottom of everything.)

I don't care if Monday's blue...

I can't count the people that have told me slow down, you think too much, and I can't count the times I tried to justify myself; well, game over, I publicly admit it: I'm neurotic and paranoid.
My head is always spinning forsennatamente, looking for solutions to issues I can't solve, or even to problems I do not have yet.

Now here's the point: I do have a problem, unfortunately named after a person whose appetite for destruction runs still too close to my quest for peace. And, since the very notion of life seems to be inseparable from the punchline never forget to fear for the worst, I can't solve it on my own: on the contrary, things have come to a head during the past few days. A weekend that I prefer to remember only because of the  films I watched during the breaks I took from moping alone on my bed, to be clear; so, now that Depression has ended, what's the next phase? Acceptance, sure. And Resolution, if I may add.

Quite a long time ago, someone told me how it feels to wake up in the morning and feel brand new. I tried to figure it in my mind, but nothing, no way - I have tricked myself so many times with that, only to find out that it is just the beginning of the next wrong start.
He mentioned raising your head, at first slowly and without conviction and then more and more boldly; he said it was like when you learn to swim, and you're not sure that you will manage to keep breathing, but then you do, and it feels as if something tore you up from and cleansed all the filth you kept inside. I didn't know the sensation - do I, after all? For sure, yesterday morning I thought I did, and it felt like an unexpected gift.

I mentioned Resolution, and indeed yesterday I took a lot of them. The point is that I'm desperately trying to find a bright side in my current situation, and when I say desperately I mean that really anything goes. So, let's think it over: what's the bright side of having my nerves threatened by someone who lives in my own house? Sure, spending more time outside. Not worrying about getting home on time, enjoying long walks in the city,  with just my earphones or someone dear - priceless, now that the sun is starting to show. Besides, that will acquiesce that damn thing - I think they call it conscience - that warns me each time I think about food.

Walking madly and eating afterwards, two things that I love at the price of one: isn't this the perfect life?
Well, I guess that I'll have to consider studying, at some point. Hey, good one, how come I hadn't thought about it earlier? My Problem will make me a better student, just because I'll have a good reason to jump out of bed and go to the library instead of procrastinating at home with mellow music and breakfast in bed. Right, right, and if my grades will be higher than last semester's I'll send her a note on perfumed pink paper: thank you, Nuisance, for pushing me at my best; sincerely, now go and get lost for ever.

I won't lie: deep inside, I'm probably still the same old psycho. But if I survived the past weekend - and I did, although I still wonder how - I guess I made a step forward, at least a little one.
This should serve as a lesson for the future, although actually I know myself too well not to be sure that it won't. Still, let's keep it working, as long as it feels good. There's a huge chocolate muffin here beside me...oh, wait, there was.
Right.
Now, sleep.

(on air: The Raconteurs - Steady as she goes)

Serotonine wanted. Urgent, call during meal hours.

I imposed myself a quite strict rule when I started this blog; no intimate confession or personal rants, it read. Still, today I have this terrible urge to write something, and anything I produce is of no use other than unleashing the gloom I have been in since the past couple of weeks.

It's just one of those moments when I'd rather have anyone around me disappear with a snap of fingers, and what I get in return is four happy-merry-drinking-buddies sitting in the kitchen, eating delicious fish and looking at my frozen pizza with pity and contempt.
Yes, frozen pizza. With a glass of tap water and an episode of Twin Peaks: tonight is's Lonely Single Night, even if I have no reason to be either of the two.
Social skills have fallen below Zero Kelvin, today; reviving them looks like an effort too big to be worthy. And, in case I forgot to mention, those people are laughing out so loud that their damn cheerfulness reaches the most remote corners of my brain - which makes me even more grumpy, as a reaction.
Well, I guess there's nothing to do about it: I'd better keep writing, if I want to avoid a chocolate overdose .

There is a lot that I have been thinking about, these days. No surprise, when what you're reflecting upon is people: something adds up everyday, and frankly, if you can manage to remember what you learnt yesterday you can consider yourself to be quite lucky.
Today, for example, I resat an exam I thought I had successfully passed long ago. That is, "how to cope with those annoying human beings who seem to be alive just to throw their happiness into your face".
I know, I know, I'm unfair. And unbalanced. And radical. After all, that's something everyone does, from time to time.
Besides, age and practice made me pretty good at telling who does it on purpose and who is just extremely, undoubtedly happy; the problem is, that I still can't figure out which of the two attitudes I hate the most. But, again, that's not what I wanted to write about in the beginning. And I see it, clearly - the risk of jumping into something too ardently biased for the time and place.

Let's turn karma around, then: I have spent the week attempting to cook - which is usually my favourite cure for the bad mood - but almost anything I tried turned rapidly into the Disaster.
So, before another Julie-Powell-like meltdown occurs (I swear, I really look like that when I fail a recipe), I'll share with you one of my past successes. Nothing special, of course, but enough to raise my self-esteem, and hopefully give you a little treat, too: ready for some biscuits?

Ingredients:
150g all-purpose flour, sifted with 1 pinch of salt;
60g butter;
50g finely chopped almonds;
50g sugar;
1 tablespoon orange zest and 2 tablespoons orange juice;
1 egg yolk, whisked;
125 g dark chocolate.

Recipe:
Mix the butter with the sifted flour and salt, until you obtain a granuloso paste.
Add the almonds, sugar and orange zest; then, add the egg yolk and orange juice.
Put the batter in the fridge, and leave it there for about 30 minutes. Then, roll it out to about 5mm of thickness and carve it out with cookie cutters.
Pre-heat the oven to 180° and bake for other 30 minutes. Let the biscuits cool down, and melt the chocolate in a double saucepan; finally, dip one half of each cookie in the chocolate melt, and leave them on a grid until the icing becomes solid.

I'm not a great fan of oranges, but I can assure you that they're lovely. Perfect with a little coffee after lunch...well, well, no more words from my part, just enjoy and let me know if you every try them. Alright?

(On air: Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody)