4.3.08

HERE COMES THE SUN, DO-DO-DO-DOOOO

I am not going to moan about it. I am not. I am not. This is my biggest fear. That the sunshine will come: O ORANGE BALL IN THE SKY, HOW I SLAGGED YOU ALL MY LIFE, AND NOW I SEE THE ERROR OF MY WAYS: it will come and it will shine on Stockholm, and still, still, STILL my mouth will make the moaning-shape.

You would not believe it, but I am NOT a moany whiny horrible person. I am not. I am HAPPY, goddammit. At one of my jobs (I was an usherette in an art-house cinema. I wore a bright pink top and a green striped apron. I smelled of pick'n'mix and popcorn. I earnt £3.25 an hour. It was delightful) I was nicknamed the 'Sunshine Girl', because of my sunny demeanour.

Sure, I was also a dizzy little cunt to whom nothing particularly bad had ever happened (no break-ups, no disappointments, no fatuous copywriting jobs, parents still together, scholarship schoolgirl, star pupil, destined for greatness, you know the drill) but damn, there are enough people out there who fit the above criteria who still mooch around sucking down antidepressants like they're Haribo Tangfastics to make the above worthy of note.

What I am saying is: I am a happy bastard. You want fun, I bring the fun. That's what fuckers hire me for. In fact, at work I (seriously) get called into meeting rooms to discuss what is up if I fail to bring the happy to their office banter. (Being Swedes, they are incapable of generating it themselves, hence the need to import me.) I wear interesting outfits and o, yes, I am Witty and Delightful and A Bit Cutting Sometimes, but with a Cute Edge that Makes Everything A-OK. That is... I was.

I was till I came here. To the Darklands. To talk in rhyme. With all my mates back home on Messenger and absolutely nobody at all in the real world. And then the darkness did come, and the sun did not rise till 9am, and it was basically a horrid dusk until the sun slid wanly back under the horizon at 2.50pm every afternoon, and then my sunshiney demeanor basically fell off the edge of the planet to be replaced by:

ULTRAWHINGE.

Utlrawhinge with her ginger minge. Ultrawhinge hates everything, and Stockholm most of all. Ultrawhinge enters conniptions of rage when the sun sets. Ultrawhinge wails with fury when she looks at her watch and realises that, even though it has been dark for the last million years, it is only 6.20pm, not 11.20 and bedtime which is what it feels like. Ultrawhinge snarls when Londoners try to tell her that the sun sets really early in London too and they really can't see what the fuck she is complaining about. UltraWhinge is Bitchy Bitch on steroids, and I had no idea she was part of me until STOCKHOLM (boo hiss) bought her out.

But you know what? That's over now. The sun is BACK BACK BACK. It's gleaming, it's winnowing (whatever that is), it's burrowing into my retinas. It's streaming into the apartment and it's illuminating every single speck of dirt and dust and the disgusting mire with which I have surrounded myself for the last four depressing lonely months. And I'm scared. I'm so scared. I normally hate summer. Stockholm has punished me with winter, it has dragged ULTRAWHINGE AND HER GINGER MINGE out of some dark crevice inside of me. And now comes the sun. And then you know what happens after that? More sun. Then more sun. THEN MORE SUN.

AND THEN THE SUN SHINES LIKE 24 HOURS A DAY LIKE A CRAZY FUCKING ECSTASY PERSON WHO WON'T GET OUT OF YOUR FACE.

And what if ULTRAWHINGE hates that too?

What if I get trapped being ULTRAWHINGE?

This country, I tell you. It's got it in for me.

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