Nothing can be more satisfying than sleeping eight hours straight all alone inside an air-conditioned room with a larger and softer bed, and a ceiling packed with 3D butterflies.
Papà knows exactly how obsessed I am with these tiny creatures that he built me my own butterfly garden on the front porch of our house back in Italy. Sadly, we had to set them all free before we transferred here. I'd been heartbroken yesterday thinking about where those butterflies are by now, and how are they doing after I released them until Papà did something amazing that surely rebuilt my broken heart-bringing me back the satisfaction of seeing them even only through 3D stickers attached on the ceiling.
I jump off of my bed and wear my fluffy bunny slippers. I stretch my body, let out six seconds of a yawn, and walk out of the room to start the day.
I head to the kitchen-my usual go-to spot every time I'm awaken-to check what's on the dining table. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm desperately expecting a French breakfast like croissants and berries and a cup of milk, or at least a baguette paired with yogurt, which I believe could be possible since I have this best Mamma who mastered all culinary delights from whatever country you name.
"Bonjour mon amour!" Mamma greets me when she sees me gliding past the sliding door that separates the kitchen from the living room.
I extend my hands toward the ceiling and wiggle my body in slow motion as I yawn again. "Since when did you learn French?" I ask, which makes her chuckle a little.
"Ah. I just found it in this recipe book," she says, proudly showing me her brand new magazine containing French dishes and everything about France.
"Okay? French greetings inside a French recipe book? Interesting."
I settle myself on the table, crack open a hard-boiled egg, and toss it straight into my mouth. I bet a staring contest against the toddler-size abstract painting of an elephant on the wall, and after a few blinks, avert my gaze and wonder what makes that offbeat art cost an arm and a leg.
"That stupid thing must be more expensive than my tuition fee for a year," I grizzle while gobbling the remaining egg I almost choke.
Mamma replies while finishing the breakfast plating. "No, dear. Actually, it cost as much as your tuition fee for your whole high school." She pauses. "That is your grandmother's wedding gift to us."
Okay. I'm done. I'm scared to say this, but it feels like in this house, I am the cheapest. I better pull myself together before I hear Mamma say, "You're only as good as a porcelain dish." Or much worse, "You're adopted." Which I hope I'm not.
"The breakfast is ready!" Mamma hums merrily as she walks out of the kitchen.
I gather all the shattered eggshells in my hand and clean up my mess before she could see it. "Enfin! Le petit déjeuner est servi!" I then say, which only meant, at last, the breakfast is served.'
She places the tray down on the table, and it's the moment I know my day's going to be so fine.
My mom never fails to meet my expectations. I haven't told her about the breakfast I'm looking forward to this morning, but what she served is exactly what I wished for. Chocolate-filled croissants with a blueberry dip and a cup of milk. I couldn't hold myself from digging one out of the plate, but at the same time, still thinking if it was just a coincidence or if she really have these cool mind-reading superpowers like what I always see in movies.
"I'm off to your new school. I'll process your enrollment papers," she says, taking off the black apron.
"That means you're leaving me here alone, right?" I look up and try as much as I can to give her puppy eyes. But it didn't work.
She smirks. "Kind of."
"Well, okay. But be back sooner."
"Of course, I will." She winks at me as she tiptoes across the kitchen to the living room to put on her make up-which I don't understand why. After some time, when she's good to go, she heads to the shoe rack to wear her all-time favorite sandals-a pink one with transparent three inches heels and a strap filled with tiny pink ribbons. It actually looks old-fashioned, like those of the 90s, but she always wears this because Papà told her to do so.
"I'm leaving, honey!" she shouts. "Don't forget to take your medicine!"
"Sure, Mamma!" I sigh, pouting my lips exaggeratedly to act like I'm sad about her departure when the truth is I'm actually feeling the opposite.
In a split second, the door slams. And just like that, she's gone. I'm alone. Again. But it doesn't really affect me since I was born with immunity to loneliness. In fact, I find this as a perfect opportunity to do whatever I want to do without being scolded or caught up for doing something ungrateful. Like playing piano in off keys, bouncing on the sofa as if it's a trampoline, baking my own recipe using Mamma's ingredients while assuming I am the next chef, Scout, doing makeovers to myself using her most treasured expensive make-up sets, and lastly, my most favorite of all, traipsing around the house without wearing anything except freedom. Yey!
"What shall I do first?" I ask the last croissant on the plate, hoping it would give me a good answer.
I move my lips from left to right while thinking of the best activity to do for this morning. I thought of going out of the apartment to meet new friends, but that's pretty boring for an introverted person like me. Playing mobile games was also a good idea, but it doesn't suit me. I mean, I have my own cellphone, but it's useless as much as it's useful to others. I don't have any social media accounts unlike Mamma-she had profiles in everything. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Line, Tumblr, and even in YouTube. She owns a channel where she uploads all her cooking and baking videos. In summary, she's techier than me.
I eat the remaining piece of croissant and belt down the half-filled glass of milk. I set aside the leftover blueberry jam, and go straight to the kitchen to lay my empty plate on the sink. I move a few steps until I reach the refrigerator where on top of it is my medicine dispenser. I pour out four tablets. One was Benazepril, my Angiotensin-Converting Enzyme (ACE) inhibitors, and three are. . . I don't know. Vitamins? I'm not sure. I always drink these four at once since I was young, yet I'm still not able to memorize all of their names. But whatever. I proceed to my room when everything's done.
Feeling the food finally sinking down in my stomach, I sprawl on my bed with my cravings satisfied. It doesn't take me a minute before I could think of something cool that would probably kill this great five-hour straight of overwhelming boredom.
I turn on the air conditioner to its highest and wait for it to cool the entire room. I pull my closet wide open and scan every hanged apparel-try to look if there's any dress or long gown that could fit me. I'm planning to do a roleplaying with myself, wherein I'll be acting as Juliet in Shakespeare's famous play. But then, when I find out that my closet couldn't provide what I'm looking for, I have to change my plan.
I'm doing what actors and actresses on erotic R-18 movies always do best-stripping.
Shakespeare's play and R-18 stuff may differ from each other in great ways, but, to tell you, they also have one thing in common. They both kill boredom. Trust me. Because when you're bored, you won't choose between things at all. As long as it's available and you think it's a possible way of killing boredom monsters within you, you'd probably go for it. Especially in my case.
It happens so fast. I tuck my shirt out of my trousers and take off both of them. I wear out my bra and that's it! I have never been this free. I tie my blonde hair into a messy bun, ignoring some of its fibers blocking my eyes. I crawl off of my bed to the mirror to check if it's fine. And It's not. But it's still fine.
To officially launch the fun, I declare today, Monday, as my Taylor Swift appreciation day. This means, my less-than-wholesome entertainment will be supported by her songs played on Papà's age-old music player.
I'm also aware that her music won't match my concept, which is stripping down, but this is the only familiar music album I saw among Papa's DVD collections. Everything may seem better if I play something sexy or romantic, but I don't know anyone singing these songs.
So, okay, Taylor Swift is my last choice and I wish what I'm doing will never ruin her reputation-and or mine.
I hoof in mother-naked, sway and wiggle and twerk in every way, tripping the light fantastically as the tracks of my life dare me to forget what lies ahead of me.