9 names.

trigger finger got the itch.

You can fuck with me, but not with my friends.

Jail has no internet.

white flag.

FOUR MONTHS AGO. 

So I woke up all hot and sticky in the car. My boyfriend is in the back seat, snoring and drooling on the cream-coloured upholstery. Oh, hell no.

I could just hear my mum’s admonishing tones. That’s why you can’t have every damn thing in white, Alessandria. Che stolto. Blah blah blah. The funny thing is, I can actually hear her voice echoing in the entrance hall right now. And so things are normal here in hell, and the Queen herself is shrieking her head off as usual. The heir to the throne is home safe.

Last night was brilliant. Brian and I were drinking Hoegaarden and he was giving me shotgun hits in the DJ booth. We hugged each other like desperate loners. He and I could be alone, but with each other. Then I laughed at what we were doing and we had more alcohol. We went home at around 3. I’m a great driver even if I do say so myself as I managed to get us home safely without a scratch on my baby. It takes a few DUIs to master drunk driving.

I stretched and worked out the kinks in my neck and clamped a cigarette between my teeth. Tried to shake my boyfriend awake. He snored in response. I gave up and stuck my hand into his pockets for a lighter. I found a cheap plastic blue one not even worth a Singaporean cent.

Right as I stepped out of the car, the gates opened and my mother came into view decked out in sunglasses, a short grey Marc Jacobs jersey dress and strappy gold flats. So chic, I’m jealous. I snatched the unlit ciggy with my hand.

“Mamma!” I said with my arms wide open.

“Are you drunk?” she deadpanned, the honey birkin dramatically dangling on her arm.

“Not at all, mother!” I dropped my arms and smiled, hiding my disappointment. Then as I saw what she had been dragging with her, a Pegase 55 and a vintage garment bag, my smile unhinged before I could hold it in place.

Very clever, mamma orso. Guess today she prefers to show, not tell. I prefer it that way too rather than hear her imitating a banshee. And her little show is very showy indeed, with her heralding Vuittons. I wondered if she was even looking at me behind her dark glasses. Her glossed lips, so identical to mine, were slightly parted as if she was allowing smoke to billow out of her mouth.

I stared at her outstretched hand.

“Good,” she nodded and followed where my eyes landed. She handed me the key to the SUV and I frowned confusion. “Can you drive us to the airport?”

My heart shot up to my throat. I relaxed my eyebrows and heaved a smile onto my lips once more. “Of course,” I said shortly. I couldn’t trust my voice. It’s kind of hard to speak when you feel like your own mother just strangled you.

“I’ll tell your father that you’re awake,” she said, her face expressionless. And with that she disappeared into the house, her sickly sweet perfume prolonging her departure.

I turned on my heel, about-facing like a soldier.

Where the hell are they going? Why didn’t they tell me? Why couldn’t I come along?

My fist tightened, crushing the joint.

I stode forward to the car and pulled violently at the knob. It was locked and I flushed, embarrassed. It agitated me even more. I stabbed the remote and yanked the door open.

“Brian, get the hell up!” I kicked at the pristine white faux leather. My mum was cussing in Italian at the maid on the terrace. Brian didn’t move.

I kicked at that fake and pretentious white again, harder, staining it with my true colour. Yellow-black like nicotine.

Brian jolted awake and sat up straight. The back of his head hit the roof of the car.

“Get the fuck out Brian. Get in the house. I have to drive them to the airport.” I spoke as angrily as I could but it all came out like I was shivering.

I took deep, slow breaths as Brian got out of the car, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve and rubbing his eyes. I shut the door and locked the car.

“Go inside and help with the luggage or something,” I mumbled against Brian’s shoulder as he pulled me into a loose embrace. I don’t know how this guy became so insightful. I squeezed his hand and apologised.

“Where are they going?” He asked.

“No idea,” I sighed out. At least with Brian I could be weak.

He pulled away and lightly lifted up my chin while sucking a deep breath. I copied him and pasted on a smile. I was sure I looked funny smiling like that. I stared up at the ceiling and willed the unshed tears to evaporate.

Brian went inside as I pushed the button for the gate. I got into the SUV and popped the back open. Brian loaded all the luggage in while my whole family emerged, sans my 3-year-old brother who was at my grandparents’. Miguela and Gian ran up to the car and I opened the door to hug them.

“Jiejie, I can’t breathe!” My sister protested.

“I can’t either. I’m sorry, kiddo.” I whispered and let go.

“You smell like burnt leaves, jiejie,” Gian smiled.

I smiled back. “You’re exactly right.”

My dad gave an aggravated sigh and angrily shook his head at me. Brian stood several feet away, looking at his shoes. Miguela hugged me again and whispered, “I told you not to drink too much and stop smoking!” and pulled Gian into the car. My parents followed suit. They settled comfortably into the large backseat area with my siblings. There was no room for one more, otherwise they’d be uncomfortable.

So that’s why I wasn’t included in this impromptu little trip. Hmm.

I drove the car forward and passed the gates. Gian quickly slid the window down and yelled for my boyfriend or his ‘kuya’ to get in the car. My mum waved a hand for him to hurry and he hopped into the passenger seat.

My teeth were glued together the whole time. My mum could see my eyes on the rearview. Dull and bleary and framed by waterproof mascara and a scowl. I sped through the empty streets of our neighbourhood. It was still seven in the morning.

“There is money on the fridge, Alessandria.” And here goes…

“Clean all the rooms, the terrace, the hot tub, the kitchen, the garden,” said my mum.

“Call some people to clean the chandelier,” said my dad.

“Gian’s room is very messy,” said my mum.

“I saw a cigarette butt in the pool. Clean it,” said my dad.

“Do not get anything from the bar,” said my mum.

My insides were squirming and my head suddenly throbbed.

“I’ll have friends coming over, Mamma. Just a few bottles?”

“Non capisco, Alessandria.”

Funny, I didn’t understand either. Was this punishment? Why did I have to clean the whole house? Where the fuck were the maids, you sadistic fucking bi–

I decided not to ask. Brian dared to hold my hand.

We arrived at the airport at a little past eight. It was uneventful. I didn’t really have to see them off, they said. Parking was too far anyway.

“Don’t disappoint me,” my dad said to me as he briefly touched my cheek. So light, it did not linger.

I didn’t ask where they were going. Only my siblings allowed to be kissed goodbye. They didn’t ask me why I wasn’t coming.

Brian and I looked up at the flight schedule. The announcement told us that the flight to Beijing had twenty minutes before departure. Ah, another reason I wasn’t included. I couldn’t speak Mandarin.

We smoked in the smoking area. We were still in our clothes from last night. We both looked like homeless people. I doubt anyone can recognise my dress under my messy hair. Brian’s tattoos weren’t helping the collective image we projected towards the people in suits who were smoking cigars across from us. They muttered amongst themselves, glancing in our way.

“Beijing, huh?” Brian lamely tried to break the silence.

“I didn’t really want to know.” I said. It was true. I wasn’t any part of it.

We had coffee at Delifrance. Such a waste of money, I thought, as I puked it all out in the ladies’ room, coating porcelain with a shitty combination of German beer, pricey coffee and stomach lining. Two women primping in front of the mirror gave Brian wary looks as he held my hair up while I purged out my insides into the toilet.

I stood up and straightened out the wrinkles on my dress before dabbing at my mouth with a paper towel. I grabbed another one and faced the mirror and carefully wiped my eyes.

One of the women tried to talk to me. After that, all I could remember was Brian cursing as I passed out.

Before waking up I dreamed of Bianco inside my mother’s stomach, bleating and crying while his white fleece was stained with his own blood.

cleaning day.

supersonic | oasis
this song had me at “give me gin and tonic” when I was 12.

sun | daphne loves derby
why is there always “sleep” in their songs? why do I like that so much?

my girls | animal collective
this song … it just humbles me. and makes me dance when the drums come in.

unison | bjork
or anything from Vespertine, really. beautiful. it feels like something is alive, growing, blossoming.

summertime clothes | animal collective
listening to animal collective is a fully-textured affair.

like a star | corinne bailey rae
a caress on the cheek.

ripchord | rilo kiley
gimme a straw hat and a ukelele. i’ll skip away in my espadrilles.

valerie | mark ronson feat. amy winehouse
I love dancing to this with my little sister.

feel like makin’ love | d’angelo
carmen giving shane a lapdance. oh god. i simply can’t erase that scene from my mind.

Sarah says it’s cool, she don’t consider it cheating.

My old friend Ching told me this morning: You can’t just avoid everybody you screw up with.

Yes, I actually experience mornings! It’s hard not to when you don’t have downers. We watched Kristen Stewart biting her lip and running multiple hands through hair at 7AM, smoking Marlboro Gold “Edge” cigarettes (from Russia), and totally forgetting breakfast. Did I mention that she lives in another city? We were video calling on our phones. She told me I looked like shit. Big surprise. No really, it is. She usually tells me that she’d like to hear me talk dirty in Italian. I don’t really know how. I was thinking of maybe asking my mum about it, I’m sure she can give me a few tips. People are telling me that I’m looking more like my mum. Does that mean she looks like shit too? How can you look like shit in an Armani dress? If I was Armani I’d say to her, most people in the world look like shit. It’s a trend, honey, work it. Or something like that in Italian. Though I doubt he’d say something that dumb. Like golden chamber pots. You’ve read Garcia Marquez, right? His novels are the truth; to be trapped in solitude is an incapacity to love. I mean, where does he get all that bullshit? I barely see anyone but I love my shoe collection like a nympho.

Apparently, I can. No more meaningless conversations with you, Brian. Goodbye for good.