turned twenty two
June 1st 2004
Some hospital on the south coast of Ireland.
My mother and her older sister sat in the waiting room. That goddamn waiting room. Firstborn, I was. Auntie had two children of her own and was/still is my mother’s moral support. To this day, no one knows why, but Auntie insisted on the doctor’s last-minute check-up on my mother. Everything had been fine. No reason for doubt. Auntie forced them to look at my mother anyway.
Emergency C-section. Coming fast. Panic rising. Turns out everything had not been fine, and by some otherworldly coincidence, my Auntie knew. I was coming out very quickly, ass first. Mother was brought into the ER. Had her first panic attack, told the nurse she believed she was having a heart attack. Our family’s horrid health history. I wonder if my mother thought of her father in that moment of fear, or if the entire world surrounded herself and me.
First day on earth. Gave my mother her first panic attack. Nearly killed myself and her. Arsed ways. Made quite the entrance.
Brought back home to these gated apartments situated next to the Garda station. Gated off. Metal stairways with no room for a buggy. The elderly couple next door who would check up on my mother. Not that I remember any of this, of course, we moved shortly after. Used to walk by the gated-off apartments when I was younger. Look at the giant Husky, or was it a German Shepherd? Anyways, admire the dog through the gates as my mother told me how we used to live there. The elderly couple always say hi when they pass us in the street. I never knew who they were, never asked. Small Irish town, everyone knows everyone, you understand.
Moved into the house, my creative child’s mind called “The White House”. Had no concept of America at the time, but the house was ours, and it was white. Very creative. Did that a whole bunch as a child. Used to call birthday cake “happy cake” and named my childhood teddy, which I got from my mother’s boss in the hospital, “sick teddy”.
“The White House” was where my mother and I planted the seeds of this family. The foundation of it all. Cold old house. Never felt the coldness, mother’s love protecting me from any cold. Used to use up all her own heat to give me the world. Despite the fact that we didn’t have much and my mother worked three jobs, I was the princess of “The White House”. Plastic Disney heels, pink box TV, princess dresses (I always did love to dress up), and a tiny plastic house inside the kitchen where I used to host tea parties and gossip parties with my teddies.
baby tori and her very, very pink room
1st June 2026
college city, other side of the country, West Coast, far, far away from “The White House”
Marilyn Monroe would have been a hundred today. I’m twenty two as of today.
Had dinner with The Boy. Showed him matcha for the first time. Shared straw, indirect kiss. Talked about what dinosaurs we think the other would and the likelihood of me dying young due to my family’s horrid health history. Burger defeated me. Soft yet crunchy fries. Waitress with nice nails. The Boy said I’m chatty today. Complimented the waitress’s nails before The Boy even ordered.
Nearly knocked over a painting in the bathroom of the Spit Jack. Thought to myself, I am the luckiest girl alive. Sat at our table for far too long after finishing our food. The Boy paid, gentlemen like that. He believes in typical gentlemanly behaviour. Never seen it in action before I met him. Headed to Gino’s. You know. The bright, multicoloured LED lightbulbs hang above our heads in this small space. Came here on our first date. Got bubblegum again, The Boy copied. Wondered if I was officially old enough to get shotgun married. Strolled back to my cosy college apartment.
Cosy College Apartment
My laugh served as a warning alarm. Escaped the stairway in my apartment complex, laughing at whatever The Boy said. Heard [Redacted] run, shouting at us while trying to close the kitchen curtains. Too confused to understand what was happening. [Redacted 2] greeted us in the hallway. That is, if you count trying (and failing) to seem nonchalant while leading againist the wall as a greeting. Told The Boy and me to go kiss for a while. Later admitted she was going to tell The Boy to “ravish” me, but got too shy. They haven’t met that often, you see, The Boy and [Redacted 2]. Sometimes when my friends read these entries, I wonder if they wish they had a nickname rather than being redacted, then I remember the fun of it all.
reasons why it’s fun
It’s mine, this is mine, they are mine, all this writing is mine. I am slightly possessive of it all. friends and writing.
The fun of trying to figure out who I am talking about. It’s like a game
Admittedly, the only reason The Boy has that name is that Coco Chanel used to call Arthur Edward Capel, “The Boy” or “Boy Capel”. I find it chic. The Chanel of it all. Not that I find Coco the most chic person who has ever graced the fashion scene. I wouldn’t consider paying off your lower-status brothers to keep your name out of their mouths because you were embarrassed by them, or socialising (allegedly fucking) Nazis chic.
Anyways, The Boy and I hide in my room. Told him, in between giggles, how I am scared of my friends. Focused on his breathing and laughter near my neck as he held me. I am the luckiest girl in the world. Heard a knock on the door followed by steps running away. Pushed The Boy forward, not even trying to bite back my smile as I could hear my friends.
Greeted by the lovely setup of lit candles, handmade cards and my friends around the table. I am the luckiest girl in the world. Held each of them. Read my cards. Secertly up them into my journal later that night. Spent the night all gathered around the sitting room playing card games and Mario Kart. I suck at Mario Kart. In a desperate way. Our cosy college apartment has been nonstop lately, between moving day, people over and grad show festivities, this felt like a peaceful conclusion to the constant go go go mood.
