Where Was I?

Where was I? In the Cotton On outlet in Tawa, Wellington picking up some crazy bargains. I find a super neon green alarm clock for $5 along with a pair of functional and fashionable boots for another five, to replace the $10 pair I had just misplaced on the train below my seat. My young male cousins are discovering the joys of shopping and fashion through the guidance of my younger sister. "Stay away from the v-necks," she alerts them. "And put down that disgusting purple shirt, you're already wearing skinny jeans. Who do you think you are, Justin Bieber?"

Where was I? Standing amongst a progression in a Catholic church in Wellington, silently calculating the percentage of people wearing white in half of the pews, in a half arsed attempt to distract my mind from the temptation of delicious sleep. My aunt had invited my mother, sister and me and my mum leaps at any chance to fulfil the lack of religion she has in her life that came with marrying my father. I honestly thought that any association that I had with Catholicism ended with my graduating from a Catholic girls school. Apparently not.

Where was I? Eating a freshly made lemon crepe from a man who had told me that he was from the south of France, that Wellington is a dead city, that he prefers Australia to New Zealand, loves Melbourne and he hopes to live there. He glances hopefully to me, receiving my conversational input. It's strange, these looks; they seem like something more than polite or innocent eye contact. But he had a strong accent and the stall's music blasted boisterously. Half of the time, I actually had no strong impression of what he was enthusiastically telling me. My sister performs like the perfect social player she is: nodding, smiling giving input, etc. I think to myself oh thank god she's here with her obvious comprehension. Later, my sister told me that she had no idea what he was saying and oh thank god I was there, with my obvious comprehension. When presenting my sister with the first of the crepes, he cacks himself at her overtly jocose expression. He guesses correctly that she is the youngest and continues to chuckle through his work. I realise how numb I've become to not only my sister's quirks, but also my own.

Where was I? Curled up with a book worm nibbled copy of Stephen King's Christine, in my oversized senior jersey and under a blanket, safe from the local daily hurricane winds. It's only one of the towering pile of cheap reads that I have snagged from Wellington op shops and second hand bookstores. I feel like a fully certified thrift shopper now, equal to the godly standards of Ryan Lewis and Macklemore (Walk up in the club like what up I got a big cock/Nah I'm just pumped up by some shit from a thrift shop). Honest to god though, this novel is fucking terrible. It reminds me of a Goosebumps book, one of those ones that everyone used to like in primary school. The plot is so basic I may as well have purchased a brain cell detonator instead and saved myself the trouble. At times, the carved paths in the book by some hungry insect fascinate me more than the actual text. They wind in and out of words, rendering some sentences into fragments and boring through several pages. I wake up later, dazed and as I rise yellowed flakes of Christine float onto the floor.

Where was I? Posing awkwardly with a stretched smile in front of a bathroom sink in the ladies' room of Wellington's Embassy cinema. This is no Myspace worthy bathroom mirror selfie. My mother was so exceedingly thrilled at being in a public toilet with plush carpet, wooden fixtures and detailed tiled walls she felt the need to document it. My sister and I beg her not to, as we stand together next to an apparent landmark for the twentieth time that day. We are in the most prestigious movie theatre in New Zealand, where an amazing and immense sculpture of Gandalf and the Hobbit Hole is plastered onto the front of the building and she wants to capture us in the loo. "It's so beautiful," she exclaims. It may be beautiful, but it still has the same purpose as any other thunderbox. People shit here.

Where was I? Listening to my eleven year old cousin excitedly tell my sister cheats on her Playstation as they squeal together in excitement while they venture through this fantasy world. I can't see them, but I can hear them through the thin walls. They keep me up until some ungodly hour in the morning. It is our last night in New Zealand and it is one of the few times that I think that this little girl is truly happy. Her older brothers are often together, grunting as a forms of communication while they are glued to their world champion boxing game on PS3. And then there's her. She's eleven and although I remember abandoning my soft toys before I was her age, I often see her hugging a withered woollen rabbit. She often keeps a false pretence of happiness before us, which barely shields her evident sadness. This girl is lonely and something is wrong. We discover just what later. However it is now, more than ever that I am thankful for my sister.

Where was I? In a shopping centre, with my mother and sister, struggling not to cry. We are finally back in Brisbane and as our internet at home likes to shit itself occasionally, we are forced to pursue the wonders of free wifi in public places. Usually we would have waited the revival of our interwebs but it is today that university offers come. My future is in cyberspace. So while my family has left me alone to discover my fate, I click away and discover it. It is an offer that I already know I have, from the email I received earlier. Yet I didn't know who from and what it was for and it is now that it is staring back at me from behind a glass screen. It is not the offer I wanted. I told myself it wouldn't happen, I tried to protect myself, but nothing could have softened this sting. Later, my mother is slow to move, slow to understand why I want to go home NOW. I blurt it out to my family, as I am failing to fake satisfaction. Although there are strangers surrounding us and I am striving against it, the tears come. While my sister holds me, my mum is horrendous at comforting me, just as she always has been. She doesn't understand and it takes her too long to succumb to my request to leave. I don't really know why I am crying - just maybe it's that I have never wanted anything more.

Where was I? Sitting behind my mac, typing furiously away. I hadn't blogged since last year. I had it in mind to be a better blogger in 2013. How so? With more substantial stuff, with stuff that is just more interesting, with stuff that I really do care for and mull over. I opened my laptop and I just let my fingers articulate the first thoughts in my head. They were of the last few weeks and of the weeks to come. I am now reconciled and ready to see that this year is perhaps maybe as memorable as it's successor, if not more. I hope. Could it be that the years are becoming shorter? I am only five months shy of 18 years old and already I feel that I am being swept into a perplexing cosmos where time is growing shorter and exponentially gains more value as it does so. Speak of the devil, it is past midnight here. I am working at my receptionist job in eight and a half hours.

Where was I? Bidding you adieu in the ending of this post. Until next time dear reader, I will be here.