I have a confession to make.
I - a nearly
twenty-six year old man - am a seventeen year old girl on the inside.
Let's back up a little.
Andrea and I have a new apartment. It is a nice place. Far,
far, far nicer than the place we lived in last year. There is a notable absence of
mildew, hot water shortages, rats and psychotic old lady break-ins. For those
of you unfamiliar with last summer's shenanigans: http://summerslums.blogspot.ca/.
The room is shaped like a Star Wars© Tie Fighter. It has a big octagonal
living room, and we each have a bedroom on opposite sides with our own bathroom attached. It combines the best features of having a roommate (living
with someone) and of living on one's own (not hearing her sing in the shower).
It even has a breakfast bar, which we totally use as a real bar, right down to
"playing bartender".
But, as my dad was quick to notice when he helped me move
in, the workmanship is a little shoddy. Some of the doors stick a little. The
dishwasher door didn't close at first. There are spots where the siding is a
few inches too short, or too long. And the drywall, as it turns out... is a
little thin.
We'll get back to that.
So Andrea and I and a couple friends went and saw Lorde perform
at Ottawa's "Folk Fest" (for those of you not familiar with Ottawa,
it has a "Jazz Fest", a "Blues Fest", and a "Folk
Fest", and none of these names mean a damn thing).
Lorde had almost no back-up band. She was a one-girl show,
and I mean "girl" in a totally non-condescending way, since she's
seventeen. She sang very well. She basically performed her entire one album on
shuffle, plus like two weird disco songs. She changed costumes several times
while no one was looking. And, she danced. Continuously. "Danced" is
the wrong word for what she does but there is no right word in the English
lexicon. She writhed and squirmed around the stage like the young girl in every
exorcism movie just as shit is getting real. Performance at its finest. We
enjoyed it quite a lot.
And then we headed home, because although Serena Ryder
sounded great, it was a week night and she was boring. Did I mention that I am
seventeen years old?
Now, as happens sometimes, I had a shitty week. My
grandmother - a very sweet lady who had more than a hand in raising me - passed
away on Wednesday. I had a bad stomach flu. And my grandmother passed away on Wednesday. Not
my other grandmother. I felt like mentioning it twice for emphasis, like a real
modern writer, because it sucked that badly.
R.I.P. Grandma. If there is a heaven, you are there.
So it's been a shitty week, and the seventeen year old girl
in me was at the ready. Then we saw Lorde, which provided some inspiration. And
we had been drinking at this music festival, as if that needed saying. And we got home, and I got some
more shitty news in the mail, and that was the last straw.
I threw some stuff around, and swore some, and gave the wall
a good-natured kick. You know, like we all do from time to time when a sports
team loses or we forget the milk or whatever.
As it turns out, the drywall is a little thin.
Andrea came over and
saw the giant hole I had just made in her wall. She looked at the hole, then
looked at me, then said "Want to talk about it?" like nothing
happened.
What more could you ask for in a roommate?
She suggested that I take a journalistic liberty in this
blog entry and write that I was mimicking Lorde's dance moves when I made that
hole. I think this is half true. I think I was channeling that fiery teenage
spirit that lies dormant within us all, just waiting to kick a hole in the
wall.
But, I am grown-up now. And like any grown-up, I intend to
march down to reception tomorrow, make up a good story as to how that hole
happened, and have it fixed.
