Yesterday I found myself in my literature class, sitting next to a woman closer to death than life; honestly, every time she moved, even the slightest movement of a pen scribble, I would be overwhelmed by a wave of the ancient stench of death. It struck me that this must be what a vampire smells like. I would have run screaming from the room if it wasn’t for the soothing ticking of my watch; It reassured me that it was 11am and even an paranoid idiot like myself knows that vampires can’t attend morning classes!
The graying, age-appropriately dressed professor of something I couldn’t care less about was droning on and fucking oooon about Dante’s “Commedia Divina” and reading us passages from it in a sort of old Tuscan dialect. Needless to say this was why my mind wandered to the realms of vampires and old dead people. I really tried to listen, but the world had turned against me! Old people smell AND a sort of crow tragedy playing out right outside the window. Somewhat like a feathered Romeo and Juliet, there was a dead crow neatly placed on top of the heavenly layer of snow and another crow bopping about around it screaming its little crow head off as if this was the most horrendous event in crow history. Although, it might be; they might not have had the pleasure of a crow-Hitler…
“WHY, why? The mother of my eggs!”
As my pondering continued I found, to my surprise, that my left leg was vibrating slightly. Luckily it was just my mobile phone wobbling around in my trouser pocket like a poor, rejected, middle child yet again left to fend for itself in the isles of the local shop.
I turned my mobile off and offered it no further thought until I was finally let out of the Danteian prison of professor bore-me-to-death.
Mobile in hand I did a little bodybop-jig to celebrate my newfound freedom and met up with my inconsistent study group at one the finer establishments for fine dining found on our campus, Fredrikke.
“+61? What part of the world has that area code?” Was all my mind could conger up of information from my modern walkie-talkie machine. It did however spark a lively discussion about phone salesmen and how much everyone hates them, including themselves.
At this point you might be thinking: Get to the fucking point you self-indulgent wanker! (Good point well made…)
My mum telephoned today to tell me the good news: My destiny as the crazed Norwegian auntie, knitting lusekofter and sending any moose, Viking or mountain/fjord inspired baby paraphernalia to my forty year-old brother in Australia will finally be realized! His girlfriend is pregnant. My mum cry-giggling whilst telling me how she never thought the day would come, all the while I was thinking that I was sure they day would have come eventually when a slightly less ecstatic me would convey to her what last weeks drunken debauchery had created in my uterus…
Anyway, we cried, we laughed, I did another bodybop-jig and now I’m going to be an aunt! If that wasn’t enough, I now finally have a legitimate excuse to cajole my parents into paying my way to Australia.
I congratulated them using my poetic missive of choice, an e-mail!
Sampai Jumpa and eternal bliss to you all
Siren
Meander about in an unfamiliar city and show off my lovely bones in the sun. Wear white backless dresses, underwear be damned, boobs o-hoy!
(Photos: Lars Venner)
(Photo: Simen? I don't remember. Please tell me if you know)
Innlegg
