DIARY OF A GIRL. Day 5

So many fortresses and ways to attack.

Okay. This is interesting. This is nail-biting. This is frightening. In fact, I can hardly contain myself. It’s on. It’s… on.

The Elliotts do not spend too much time together and that is the way we like it. At least there is no hypocrisy. This time, however, my mom stopped us after dinner to discuss the guest-list. Our guest-list for the upcoming Christmas. “Okay”, said my dad. “Okay”, nodded Marie (who was in fact dying to go upstairs and post a vaguely erotic picture of herself on her increasingly popular Facebook page). This was not normal. Like I told you, the guest-list is always the same and there is nothing to discuss.

But there are things a girl would recognise. That evil flicker in my mom’s eye as we were edging towards one particular name. Like a fluttering butterfly that suddenly does something smart and flies through the small window. Of course it was all about that name. Nobody cared that Dennis was a waste and Emma was invisible. “Is Emily necessary?” my mom asked.

Uh-huh. Say what you want about women who read cheap romantic novels and do gardening. They know. And God knows what it can lead to when the time comes and the Christmas tree is glowing. My mom didn’t even have to say anything. She only had to mention the name to send my dad groping for silly excuses. Like a blind lunatic. And she won. Emily is coming, but that’s irrelevant now. Because my mom won. She lost but she won. That’s what women do. They lose but they win.

A woman is a scorpion rising scorpion falling scorpion rising scorpion falling.

…

Who are you, my reader? Are you a young girl just like me? Are you a sweet boy like Eric? Are you here with a purpose? Or are you some random lurker who accidentally came across this blog looking for sick pleasure? (In which case I redirect you to my Facebook account.) And do you see what I’m doing here? Are you being attentive? Do you see how everything is getting set up? Do you see?..

I wrote to Eric saying I’m very much looking forward to what he is going to tell me. Jesus I hate myself. 

P.S. 14 days.