TGIF.

So...is it Friday yet? Cause I'm looking forward to Friday. I like Fridays.

Princess Stuff.

Appreciated Homies,

Today, after the Weird Dialogue with Little Person Living Inside My Head (I swear I still have not lost my marbles), is a cute princess crafts session. My niece’s birthday, the youngest one who is turning three,  is on the 18^th, and so this coming weekend, there is a birthday party going on. I’ve decided to make little Princess packages for all four girls, my two nieces and their two cousins. Pictures for you, My Loverlies. How happy are you, right?

The Materials for the crafting. From left to right, in the front row (like this is a Prom picture): princess stickers, glitter which looks like strings of diamonds, silver sticky letters, acrylic paint in bubblegum pink, eucalyptus green, powder blue and straw yellow (all Ceramcoat),yellow and white ribbons and silk paper for wrapping, a gift bag for the Birthday Girl's present and paper mâché hearts, in their raw, brown form. In the background, from left to right, my paint box on top of which rest two of the paper mâché hearts which I have already painted, a case of Corona (which has nothing to do with this post - ahem), and the noodle boxes I got to put the Princess heart-shaped boxes in (why am I reminded of a Nirvana song?), nestled in green silk paper.

 Anabelle's Gift Bag, containing two books: one about Sirens and one about Imps.

 The Princess Boxes, once they are done. The noodle boxes, decorated with princess stickers on all four surfaces, are meant to nestle the four princess heart-shaped boxes, each identified with the girls' initials (from left to right, Liliane, Anabelle, Éva, and Clémence). The Princess boxes are filled with real fruit gummies. Yum.

Ipso Facto.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi. I thought I’d barge in here, because I’ve got all the passwords and stuff, being the Little Person Living Inside Mademoiselle’s Head and all, and let you know how things have been lately. You need to know. I’ve been relegated to the role of, um, Bookkeeper or Something, and so that makes me the only entity, aside from Mademoiselle herself, able to tell you what has been going on inside her head lately. So bear with me: I make things interesting. First, you need to know I have been fine, thank you. I value your friendship for asking. I always knew you came here for news about me, not Mademoiselle’s constant rambling.

And now, on to the other things. So, you should be warned, this is not a pretty or a funny story, and Mademoiselle has had it rough. She spent more than one evening getting used to being alone, and the evenings where she was not alone, she was wondering how come she wasn’t able to be alone. She would curl up into a little ball and – 

Mademoiselle: Uh - what the hell are you doing?

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Um. Talking about stuff.

Mademoiselle: What stuff? My stuff?

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yeah.

Mademoiselle: How dare you?

Little Person Living Inside My Head: I’m entitled. I am standing on the inside, here, and I see that all these nice people are waiting to get the real deal. You have to let me do this. I am your best voice. Trust me. Look – I am not wearing a loincloth, today. I am wearing a toga. A soft, silk blend toga.

Mademoiselle: Which makes you completely trustworthy.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yes.

Mademoiselle: No.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: I think this argument is pointless, and that now, your Faithful Throng of Readers will think you are crazy. Voilà. 

Mademoiselle: I do not wish to share this part of my life right now, thank you. My readers (all three of them) will understand. You are no marketing major, so buzz off.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Fine. I will let you do this in your own time.

Mademoiselle: Thank you.

34-45

There are many reasons why I should not worry about my age. For one, I am young. I am very young, too. I’ve got at least more than half the time I’ve already spent on this earth left. I’m not quite halfway yet, but I feel I am getting close. It’s scary, but reassuring.

At this point, I should be worrying about the future, paying for my mistakes, and living unabashedly. Check, check and check.  Look forward, keep the course, and brace for the best (and worst, you never know).

So...why the fuck do I get pissed off or, at least, slightly irritated when, in an online survey for a group I belong to, I have to check the 34-45 box when asked which age bracket I am in? Damn.