Photography: Jonathan Sommereyns
(I sincerely apologize for royally fucking up your beautiful shot, Jonathan. But I couldn’t help myself making this picture as sarcastically beautiful as I royally can, you know me.)
It’s kind of a funny story, this one.
November has always been somewhat of a waiting game for me; like the night before Christmas when you can’t sleep because you know you’ll be getting fab prezzies in the morning and chocolate and basically the whole *magical* process of eating whatever you want without giving a fuck about whether or not you’ll still fit into your carefully chosen NYE dress because Christmas only rolls around once every year and your mindset is all like “#yolo, if I die tomorrow at least I will have had the immense orgasmic pleasure of eating the equivalent of the Empire state building”. Only, it’s still only the 1st November and I’ll be waking up every morning for exactly 24 days feeling like this. Including the disappointment when realizing that day 25 — or as I like to call it, Christine-day — of said magical month hasn’t arrived yet.
You guessed it. Exactly one month before s
tuffing-my-belly-till-explosion-day Christmas, is yet another one of life’s necessities called my birthday.
I say necessity because in September, exactly three months prior to this holy day, I start planning my birthday party like the
crazy free-spirited perfectly normal human being that I am. What a confession. I know. The worst part is that this is 100% not exaggerated like I might probably maybe perhaps sometimes tend to do in other writings & musings of the mind. It’s just something about the way that, only on this day, people accept my usual arrogance for about 24 hours before going back to being annoyed by my overly confident and obnoxious self. No, I kid of course. Or, do I.
But it is true that I feel like, for one day — or in this year’s case, a full weekend, what is life y’all — I can be my overly fancy self and wear ballgowns and crowns and glitter and do overly excessive shit and spend an obscene amount of money (mom, dad, I know you’re reading this, don’t panic) without being judged for it because I have a valid excuse: “It’s my birthday & I’ll be my extravagant self if I want to and I’ll drink red wine ’till I start actually believing I’m a queen of something if I want to, I’ll eat cake without counting calories if I want to and dance all day like a hooker on a Saturday night if I want to and go online shopping and buy myself three birthday outfits, five pairs of shoes, too many golden balloons, a tower of birthday cake, a unicorn, a brand spanking new boyfriend and a dwarf so I’m finally not the smallest person at the party, if I want to. That last part might’ve or not already actually happened (I will be broke for the next 12.3 years, but at least Rodrigo will be there to comfort me. And yes, I chose the hot-six pack-Spanish version of the boyfriend package because again, what is life y’all).
Again, I kid. Because I can’t even commit to a lipstick. Let alone a man. Sorry, amigo. Also because the men I encounter usually have more dick in their personality than they do in their pants. You see ladies & gents, the birthday honesty is already kicking in and we still have one more day to go #sorrynotsorry. So starting tomorrow, my carefully scheduled birthday extravaganza plan will kick itself in motion and all my friends will start having mental breakdowns over the course of three days because of the overload of birthday-Christine because she will be looking like she drank a gallon of caffeine mixed with happy pills and won’t sleep for a good 72 hours.
Oscar Wilde said the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield it. Well, Oscar my wise man, my birthday is my addiction and I will be yielding the shit out of it. Blog awards with the most gorgeous ballgown and high heels & grime-after-party — with said ballgown + sneakers (I’ll look hella
tiny cute without heels, heads up) — ’till dawn on Friday. Fancy ass, extravagant, sophisticated, exquisite, elegant & chique high tea/brunch/cake-binge-eating party & after-after-party on Saturday. Massive-hangover-recovery-eating-leftover-cake fiesta in my bed on Sunday. Still-hungover-headache-cake-eating-par… oh wait it’s already Monday. Never mind.
And after all this, you’re probably wondering right about now, “mirror, mirror on the wall, does Christine even make sense at all?”. Hate to prove you right because no, this really doesn’t make sense. Not even to me. Again, what is life, y’all. Well, apparently it’s a year-long anticipation to the greatest day of the year. Yup.
Happy 22nd Christine-day, y’all!