The age of the understatement

As much as I would like to call that profusion, we’re facing a love confusion with the ascent and nerve of a TV drama series. When I look around, I feel that people of the same age divide. I could actually point them out and divide them myself, like Moses did with soup. I mean water. My point is: there are those who decide to put a ring on it once they hit 25 and the rest of us, who decide to hook up more or stay indoors more (depending on the monthly booze-tobacco-expensive footwear-pasta-books-mascara budget), lose weight, make a diy business, go to Africa or hit the therapist (not in the face, but some might also consider that after their cash withdrawal receipt failed to match their self esteem boost).

We don’t need to be teenagers to become confused, and I for once know there wasn’t so much confusion around back in ’97. It’s floating around, it protrudes through the torn sleeves of your shirt, it itches your skin, it melts in your Starbucks latte. It’s responsible for your bad breath, bad habits like smoking 2-3 packs a day, exchanging walking with cabs or intentionally forgetting to say hello to all the friends that you hate cause they’re happy. It’s in the mindless sex you have only for the sake of  f e e l i n g  something better than tequila. In the plane tickets you buy wishing you didn’t come back.  It eventually makes us go on Facebook and like that sappy sad page “My friends are getting married; I’m only getting drunk”. Coke, bikes, beer, drunken girls in Control at 2 am, top 5 easy ways to get in their pants, Florence and The Machine on the rocks, riding in cars with boys, Urban Outfitters. The labels of a an artsy fartsy world filled with confusion. Stupid takes it all.

We use the confusion to be hype. We glamorize it. We totally dig it, it gets us free drinks in bars at 3 am and looks  a m a z i n g  with a Prada purse. It’s a good excuse for taking candid street shots of yourself in underwear and socks and posting them on Facebook AND a successful pretext for looking  jaded and intagible with a cigarette in the corner of your mouth and a washed out smelly t-shirt at 4 in the morning in clubs, like a cheap reproduction of James Dean. Yes, we LOVE the confusion. It reminds us we’re an exclusive circle of fucked up people, with a certain agenda, a vibrant lifestyle and a preference for teenage girls or just girls who sing in bands. It reminds us we’re amazing, popular, happy, lost and, well, incredibly lonely.

We think about love once in a while, because it’s nice and it’s warm and it was sometimes fun, before that bitch or that tosser spoiled it. Then it just didn’t matter any more… My friend A. thinks we’re not set to have a successful relationship unless we’ve just gotten out of adolescence or we’re late close to our thirties. Because it’s then when we have the purity or the maturity necessary for love to thrive..what’s in between is just confusion, she says. Being there, now, being part of that confusion, makes it feel like a post teen despickable adventure where looking for “something” is at times intertwined with looking for “someone”. There’s always a craving that pushes you back in your seat when the girl from last night’s party who’s sleeping next to you wakes up and amazes you with perfect coffee and there’s nonetheless always another craving when you think you’ve seen a guy too much and failed to get attached.

In reality, the age we live has little to do with comittment. Attachement is spam. We got friends for that, sometimes still parents. We’re more attached to jobs, Skins tv series, Hazelnut Toffee Latte, our wallet and diet plan than to a person. And when we get attached, it sucks, and we have to run with scissors. Because we start  f e e l i n g  and feeling means positively hurting, it means loathing and it also means sex, but it for sure means exclusiveness and in the end, fighting.

Then we’re stuck in that chair at that class reunion/wedding/party where everyone we used to know is coupled and our skin starts to itch from all the “love is in the air”. We go home, crack a bottle open, sit on the couch and let the monsters creep in. Loneliness is awesome. We only wish we knew how to get rid of it.

Photos taken by self
1. A wall note inside [can’t tell you yet]
2. Supernova T shirt and Leather biker jacket, owned
3. Hermes Elixir de Merveilles fragrance + watches
4. A bunch of sheer loves (left to right – BIPOLAR dress; thrifted dress from the city of Sulaina Beach; boob showing see through shirt)
5. It’s a secret.


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