Saturday, 6 February 2010


Among the bright headlights of cars and the neon signs of various coffee shops, bars, and restaurants, my brother dearest said something to me.
I'm Kristiina. I'm 16 for now, and I live in Rotterdam.
I smell hot caramel, marijuana, greasy turkish food and booze, and I talk and talk, relating to my relative my recent experiences with each. I mm and ahh at the mention of stroopwafels, oliebolls and chocomel.
"Kristiina, you talk more about food than boys."
I say for now, because my birthday is soon. Hopefully some Amsterdam to look forward to. It's about 20minutes from here.
Now here I realise it's true, and I have to turn my ocular lenses inside out, and untangle the mess inside myself to uncover the ultimate truth.
He's right.
I'm more comfortable talking about food than guys. AND I KNOW YOU DO THE SAME. I'm going to stop you right there before you close the window and dismiss me for another 16 year old emo girl. I'm perfectly fine. I'm normal sized and normal looking, and I have no self-denial issues- or at least I didn't think so. So ladies listen up, and guys too.

This might seem something a 42 year old extremely obese virgin might say, but I'm more comfortable talking about food because food doesn't hurt me. You can't make fun of me for liking a food, the food can't ridicule me by telling me it doesn't like me.
And now I've realised, I miss all of it. I miss the risk, the flirting, the texts, the calls, the smiles, the times, the the the everything. I miss holding on in the morning, and I miss the teeth I see when I whisper the magic words that bring him over the edge.

So I laugh out loud, and my brother dearest asks me if I'm all right. I am.
My nails are painted white, and my hair's in a messy bundle on my head, except for the pieces that don't reach, and fall on my face or my shoulders. I've got a bag of bilars but I'm thinking of someone, and I can tell you this now because I'm not uncomfortable with it anymore.

1 comment:

  1. You can't be made fun of for liking a food? Obviously you've never declared the culinary value of Wendy's while being dragged to a Parisian-themed function.