#funny letters

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[goamazons]

                                                                                            September, 12                                                                                             Damnville You know Dad,

If I counted up the number of times I’ve been in BIG trouble, I’d open a Trouble Museum. Ma says it’s all coz I was born on a plane and caused quite a trouble to everyone aboard. Or as she calls it — bloody mess. ‘You are born to get in all the wrong places,’ she says and I say it wasn’t me in the first place who took that 14-hour flight drop-dead pregnant to the hell of a nowhere.

But maybe she does have the point. Coz I got to a TERRIBLY wrong place just yesterday and would rather prefer a 14-hour flight to nowhere, please. We’ve been to Hecta’s Gran’s on a visit at her Palace-like house in Ratyshche. The place is HUGE and full of people like a cucumber of seeds (her clan is like Golden Horde, and as barbaric). Nobody attacked our Amazons Army though, so we were dying of just boredom. But not until Heck had her *BRILLIANT IDEA* to play Hide and Seek.

‘Ew! We’re too big for that,’ Agnieszka retorted. 

‘We play that or go for another round of Gran’s babble on Pan Grant cheating on his wife with a milkman,’ Hecta said and Neshka jumped to her feet with, ‘You count!’

We decided to cover only open rooms since we’d sooner grow with grass than get found in the back chambers. Still I was determined to give Heck a hell with that. I’m a master of disguise, ho-ho! So she went counting, One little gnome, two little gnomes, three big dragons burn their homes… Agnieszka stood behind the drapes with her fairy bowed shoes sticking out. She ALWAYS takes drapes! She’s too keen on all those romantic Victorian novels where drapes were everywhere and stuffed with people listening to all sorts of secrets, meh! I could do better, I thought and nosed into every box and basket around like a true fit-in-all cat but couldn’t find anything safe enough. Then I heard Hecta yelling, ‘READY OR NOT,’ panicked and slipped into some room at random. 

It was rather small, and, damn, had no baskets. So I crawled under the bed, pushing aside one million and one pair of shoes, noisy tin cans and other inconceivable junk. Was right on the dot in time before the door creak opened. I held my breath, trying on my magic invisibility before Hecta AHA’s at my sticking out ass. Instead, I heard giggles, shuffling, feet rapping at the floor and the door click shut. Then Hecta’s auntie Christina’s voice murmured, ‘Your wife’s gonna kill me.’

‘Nobody’s gonna know, babe,’ Pan Grant’s voice replied, low and muffled. They put the lights off and plopped on top of the bed doing lots of funny animal noises. And I was like SHIVER ME TIMBLES!

WHAT was I gonna do?! Surely NOT jump out of there with a stiletto in each hand crying, Shoe Police, hands up, dicks down! Ugh, I’d better stayed there until Ragnarök hoping by the time I see the light in the tunnel, I’d finally manage to grow a proper beard for my true Viking looks. But Lady Doom said, Nah! and sent me the fattest ever fatso cockroach creeping there right under my nose. And y’know, cockroaches and I are mortal enemies. We’re like Saint Michael and Satan, just bound to battle. Honestly, I had no control over my archangelic muscles when I grabbed a shoe and slopped it dead.

‘What was that!’ Pani Christina shrieked, stopping the creak-squeak of the old matrass.

‘Someone downstairs,’ Pan Grant supposed-to-sleep-with-milkmen groaned. ‘Don’t mind it.’

And I wouldn’t mind it either but my sacred battle stirred all the dust down there and I had no control over that gigantic sneezing bursting out of my entire essence, bumping my spine against the bed roof. That sent them both jump in sheer total horror. Their screams echoed in every corner, and I think Pan Grant’s has killed every crystal glass in the house. 

There was no point in waiting for Loki and Co. I shot out of there like a bullet, clattering with all the blasted tin cans and sneezing again so hard that bomb farted them right in the faces. Oh, BLOW ME DOWN. My only luck, the lights were out. I darted looking for the door, hearing them drop off the bed, still yelling like never. Just a mushroom salad little fart, why so panic, jeez!

I jumped through some door and hit the helluva mess of clothes and hangers. Some more carton junk fell on top of my head. SHIVER ME THIMBLES the wardrobe! I realized (quite sadly) there was no Narnia behind it. So I bumped back and found the door stuck. Blimey! I was trapped! TRAPPED in a wardrobe! I pressed a foot against it and gave it such a Viking kung fu push I tumbled out of there like a football and rolled hell out of there. Pani Christina fled to the bathroom and her lover still messed with his pants, still yelling. 

I dashed along the corridor in fear they’d let down all the king’s horses and all the king’s men to catch me. Hell with the boxes, I jumped behind the first drape and, surprisingly, stood there for the whole forever. And screamed my bum away when Hecta and Neshka pounced at me out of the blue. ‘Where on Earth ‘ve you been!’  Agnieszka cried.

‘Just here!’ I lied my socks off. 

‘And what’s this?’ Hecta took a nylon stocking off my shoulder that lovingly hugged me around the neck. What would you say to that, Dad? Surely not the truth. 

                                                                     Your Hiding Master, Skipper

[typicalhippiegirl]

Thanks for the stuff.

[tiscomics]

re: Male model position for insurance company has been filled.

Support me: http://www.patreon.com/thingsinsquares

[goamazons]

Wednesday, 8 September

Still reading Oliver Twist. Told Amazons about Daddy’s ban on chocolates in hope they’d smuggle in something sweet. Carmina brought in a full sack of hardtacks and yo-ho-hoed like a boozy pirate in the troubled waters, crunching them one by one, while Hecta mostly dwelled on all the grim and ugly details of the Victorian days >__< (including ghosts, vampires and black masses). I wish the world went to the drunken fairies and get lost there for good. T_T

Thursday, 9 September

I think I’m already lost. Only it’s no fairy land but the stinking London slums stuffed with TWISTED hopping OLIVES. Dickens is murdering me.

Friday, 10 September

Okay, enough of dramas! I’m officially on the Noble Path to ending all this suffering, yay! ^__^

We studied Buddhism with Mr Ross today, and he said that all-mighty Buddha was not actual God but mega powerful and mega kind human being. And anybody can get free and enlightened in a glimpse of a moment if one really tries and m e d i t a t e s. I think it is quite fortunate to develop into Buddha and know all the answers to the test torturing no books. Besides,

Meditation is super simple. I don’t need to study or eat hardtacks, only sit, WATCH all that run through my mind, EXPERIENCE it without pity or judging and then… LET IT GO.

I tried it and ended up thinking about so many things! What I would play in Sims, how to make a proper doll sweater from Daddy’s sock, Tom tumbling off the sofa knob in his sleep, poor little boy stealing hankies in the London gutters… Then Patrick and his forever running nose. Ow, I shouldn’t think about Patrick. If I think about Patrick, I can hardly concentrate on anything but then, suddenly, oh dear, I miss you, chocolate!

Read more from Agnieszka diary!

[goamazons]

                                                                            September, 9                                                                             Damnville Dear Dad,

Are you reading this holding something liquid and fragile in your hand? YOU BETTER PUT IT DOWN FIRST. I’m about to swipe you off your feet with completely, utterly ridiculous news.

Okay, *cracks her knuckles* You are safely footed, right? In a battle horse stance, I hope. Right-o. Coz guess what, I AM A MODEL! (You still breathing?)

It all started with Agnieszka having her *BRILLIANT IDEA* of getting rich and famous by simply being pretty. Then Amazons jumped into the warrior model campaign to get her into the spotlight. We hunted for agents on Dress Show Live in La Terra the other day and one obviously blind one took my insect persona for walking fashion and style.

I mean, shiver me thimbles, me, a model?? The closest I ever got to painting faces and dressing up in anything other than my old jeans was in drama lessons. When I played an aspen tree.

Ma threatened to give those jeans to charity but was too afraid the poor kids would run away screaming. She so misses the point! My jeans are NOT GOING ANYWHERE. They are my cosmic mega soulmate that stands it all for the sake of our sacred union. I don’t give two hoofs how ugly they sag and fray and people start accusing me of being a LESBIAN BOY. Inner beauty is all that matters, right? RIGHT? So unless they break in two on my very ass, I stand by and fend off the pink glittery wand of fashion with my wild jeansed leg. Ha. Ha!

Well, not anymore. I got hit-n-run by real blimey AGENT, promising a holy grail in my pockets and a label of a world beauty stuck to my forehead. For the record, Cap, it’s not really my looks with buckets of Ma’s stupendous ginger DNA, but Oliver’s idea of an alien mantis on the magazine cover. He aches for bloody revolution crushed at the entire yoghurt fed baby-doll industry of fashion. Oliver is “a model minstrel” as he introduced himself to Ma, “in search of extraordinary poems among the dull prose of mob.” And Ma said I was rather a kids’ rhyme coz I was fifteen FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. What did he even think about!

“My daughter is NOT selling her dignity to your devil's magazines!” she cried. Then Oliver said how much the devil pays for that. She blinked and, in a perfectly steady voice, asked to add a few numbers. “As a cherry on top of the cake,” she smiled. “Not for Carmina, of course. She’s on a strict diet now, aren’t you, sweetie?” Drop me dead.

You can’t say NO to Ma and keep the planet turning, so there I was, sitting in front of the mirror trying hard not to breathe. The makeover lady bustled around like a busy bee while I did what I do worst — held still. She glued the second layer of lashes on top of mine and shaped my hair into a fence-on-fire blast, so now I looked like that crazy club Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy.

“Well, at least they didn’t dress you in bikini,” Hecta cheered me up with her broken brow line.

We vexed my Christmas tree outfit in the mirror and cracked with laughter. The glittery balls and tinsel pinned to the emerald ruffles tingled alone, and I rattled like one giant baby toy. Then, more busy bees rushed in and our faces dropped, coz

a) Hecta was supposed to be my over-eighteen y. o. chaperone, i. e. so deadpan serious milk goes bad in miles around. And

b) they brought the shoes. Blimey. Not even shoes, NINE INCH FEET WEAPONS!

“How do I walk in THIS!” I cried as I ventured a few crab steps, “How does anyone walk in this?”

“People dance on the rope too,” Hecta said.

“It’s not helping, Heck. The only way I can get in these on camera is to hop it all on my head. Do you think they can give me Kung Fu stuff for balance?”

No chance. They didn’t even give me A MINUTE to totter it out. Scooped me up like spruce from the placid wilderness and threw under the fireworks of Christmas tohubohu. The photographer was a bossy black woman with a ferocious crop of purple hair, a tanker body and the voice of an organ. I wasn’t the only one tested for the set. I figured out other victims with drag queen faces, and they all looked like Purple Hair Bulldog had sniffed their fear off and bit half their souls for that.

I toddled out to the spot where the people with tablets pushed me, with the face of a spartan soldier going for the battle to die in. Oliver thumbed me up from behind the photographer, and Hecta cried, “Break a leg!” from behind the painted clouds curtain. Which wasn’t as SUPPORTING as bloody PROPHETIC coz the next very moment I bashed into one of those one-eyed lamps on a leg and knocked it down. My Christmas tree dress wobbled like a ship dinging alone while the entire fashion host in the room yelled a yell of a burning jungle.

“What the hell is she doing?” Photographer cried like I wasn’t even there. “Get her the umbrella!”

The umbrella swept into my hand sharpish. The dude on a hybrid of a tractor-helicopter machine switched the fan on and it farted tinsel on top of my Groot head.

“Move, Christmas, MOVE!” Photographer commanded in a voice of a giant crushing Olympians.

I gazed around in search of a living Christmas, then realized it was me and, “HOLLY SHIT, this is real.” I hit my best tribal butt dance with a jolly Tarzan cry coz my heart drummed for it, stilettos begged for it and coz hell knows what else models do there. By the thundering gaggle from the fake-faced girls, I knew it was a blasting success, so it struck me as a complete surprise why Miss Shooter stopped clicking her camera and goggled back mouth open. “What the f…”

Then I had this stark *BRILLIANT IDEA* of doing Kung Fu form and lashed my leg up, wacked another lamp and ended up on the floor with it in an amorous embrace. Everyone crushed to pieces again about killing lamps and kid models. Makeover bees buzzed around and Hecta helped me stand up, not entirely the same person I was before, but desperate to kick these shoes back to where they belong — bloody CIRCUS.

“What’s your name, Christmas?” Photographer boated up to me, hands on hips.

“It’s Carm…”

“Listen up, girl. This is a speedy and serious business, okay? We’re not nursing crackers here. You need to be quick and creative, but serious.”

“I’d love to, ma’am,” I said and blew a clod of tinsel off my eye, “but these shoes.”

“What about shoes?” she stared at my feet and probably saw comfy sneakers instead.

“Well, er...” Think! Think quick. “Christmas trees are barefoot, ma’am.”

She eyed my shoes again and said, “All right. If that saves the rest of my lamps, take them off. And show me your true self.”

Blimey, I just did, and she said I was crackers. Okay, maybe I wasn’t that convincing. I threw stilettos off and took my battle stance. This is gonna be fun. I jumped and rolled around the stage, kicking and punching and yelling HIYAAA! flashing with my emerald shorts like the flag of freedom. I totally killed it and send it all to Kung Fu heaven. So ha! When I slapped the fist at my palm and bowed, closing my performance, nobody moved or laughed. Not even Photographer who failed to take a single shot.

“Well?” I asked panting. “Can I go now?”

They said DEFINITELY. And never. EVER. Come back. Yep, that was the end of my illustrious career, Dad, and drop me dead how lucky I am to get away with my life. Though it was a little sad too when Oliver cried all over my “poetic” hair and quite successfully watered my Groot.

“Do you think it means I’m useless?” I asked Hecta on the bus back home when the dust settled and I sensed like my Shaolin power screwed all up again. And she said into her e-book, “You kidding me? That was a phenomenal scoop. They crapped their pants at your Seven Star Fist.”

“But was I pretty, at least?” Maybe, I did miss something.

Hecta lowered her phone and stared at me. “Dude, you looked like a baby whore.”

Nope. Nothing missed. What’s the point of being pretty and photogenic if you can’t kick your leg? I would rather play actual trees and in proper pants and be ugly all I like coz it’s like my natural, original sin born before the Big Bang turned chaos into order and divided all to pretty and not.

The only trouble is… I need to give Ma the bills for broken lamps. And live. Fingers crossed.

                                                                                  Your model Skipper

[goamazons]

                                                                              September, 7                                                                               Damnville

  Dear Dad, Do you know what’s really wrong about teens? Everyone wants to be SOMEBODY and do something UNIQUE. And not like spooky-psycho-sick, but you know, POPULAR. So that everyone will double-tap, comment and follow it. I must have caught the wrong planet coz I really like to be nobody. I think it gives me like freedom to be all I want, not just what’s streaming. But anyway… I dropped by Aidan’s the other day. He had his next absolutely *CRAZIEST IDEA* to paint his bedroom walls. And I don’t mean paint like cover it with one colour but draw a complete and utter masterpiece instead of using canvas as all normal painters do. I just caught him climbing the helluva stepladder to do the mountain tops and helped him stay there, not plop down and do the grass instead. His mom Daffodil (well, actually Annella but nobody calls her that) got suddenly possessed, but not by devils, by LATIN PROVERBS. She kept telling how it was important to BE somebody, DO something, ANYTHING, but try and LIVE not just exist. ‘CARPE Diem, amica mia, carpe diem!’ she splashed out with a graceful swing of her hand.   I had no idea what she wanted from me but I must have looked really boring and inexpressible coz the very next day she told Ma how really boring and inexpressible I looked. ‘My son is doing a full-sized mural,’ she said with a proud nod. ‘He enjoys his life and brings colours to it while some teens can only climb trees and fall down from them.’ *A glance my way* Ma was so furious. I thought she’d bring THE SKIES down to Vengeance Her Kin! But she only barked, ‘You’re right, Daff, some teens are true vandals, not like our darlings. You know, we’ve been fixing the pipes and our bathroom is such a mess. My talented little girl was just about to paint the shower tiles with dolphins and mermaids!’

I started laughing but choked on it when Ma dragged me to the first art-n-hobby shop around and then shut me in the bathroom one on one with the blasted wall. ‘If some Aidan Rossetti can do it, you surely can,’ she said lighting a joss stick of patchouli. ‘But Ma, Aidan was born with a brush in one hand, a guitar in the other, two right feet and a mouth full of languages! The best I can do is to draw a smiley on a stick,’ I protested. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! You’re a daughter of a witch. You can do anything. Now. Open your chakras, connect your spirit to the Space and bring it to life!’ She slapped my cheeks and shoulders to bring some of my blood back to life too and was off for her daily shot of terribly artless Poldark. Dad, I sat there for HOURS, smudging paint by the cracked tiles. I cried, I laughed, I played with my cats and drew a Halloween make up on my face. I honestly tried to paint dolphins too but they suddenly turned into deeply troubled octopuses. And my mermaids have probably lived all their lives in Picasso seas. By the end of the day, all I wanted was to BURN THIS FRIGGED WALL and all the frigged house with it. Then RUN, RUN as fast, RUN as long as I could and only stop when somebody sees a painter’s brush in my hand and asks, ‘What is that for?’ When Ma came to check on my progress, hands on hips, she found it nice, though. ‘Oh, I love it, Carma! So spiritual and symbolic. I expected a sea theme but your pterodactyls look even better.’ ‘Ma, they are dolphins.’ ‘As you say, darling. Now, clean the mess and let it dry. The paint tube says, for three full days…’ Three days, DAD!!! I haven’t had a shower for THREE! DAYS! I didn’t think I’d ever take it home, though. Those monsters were truly creepy. I even had nightmares about them chasing me all the way to school. When Hecta saw them, she offered to film a horror flick in my bathroom. And when Aidan saw them, I thought he’d crack from laughing that loud. Anyway, the funniest thing of it all is that I did have a shower there, just today. My usual steamy shower and you know what? That blasted paint just, peeled off. IT PEELED OFF MY GOD! Like drops of wax from a glass. Ma was off her rockers calling the shop and blaming all the dead and alive for selling her “fake snot” of paint. Then she bought me a chocolate cake to eat down the TRAGEDY but blimey, there’s no tragedy. I’m BEAMING! The tiles are clean, and I even have a cake for that. Yay! Will write to you soon,                                                                    Yours (so ordinary) Skipper

[goamazons]

                                                                                             September, 2                                                                                              Damnville

Dear Dad, You can survive for three weeks without food, for a week without water and turn into a measly gremlin the next very day without a toilet. You’re reading a toilet monster, Dad. Never feed me after dark, ha, ha! It all started when Ma got struck by one of her *BRILLIATN IDEAS* to change the entire pipe system in our house. Just after she flushed the lobsters’ shell down the drain, and they got stuck there for good like, getting back to the ocean wasn’t their most cherished dream before dying. The easiest way out was to invite a proper plumber. Ha! That never happens in Ma’s horoscopes she reads every time she needs to do something PIPING. Instead, she invited our neighbor Mr Gardenzio even though he’s not a plumber but an ex-heavy-lift-boxer and also never gets my name right (he calls me Buster.) I have nothing against boxers and busters, Dad, but every time Mr Gardenzio comes by, my house smells of dogs, sounds like a rush hour and I am a free errand boy.  He smashed all our pipes to dust and sent me to buy one thousand and one thingy I’VE NEVER KNOWN BEFORE EVEN EXISTED. I called Amazons and together, we rumbled by the hardware stores like three lost kittens. Hecta asked, Why would a boxer fix your pipes. I said, He re-qualified into a plumber after he retired. However, when we were back it turned out, he actually did not coz he’d just had a spontaneous duel with the toilet pan. And won. It cracked in two like pieces of the cosmic Yin and Yan that now will never get back together T_T

Then the ball got rolling...

Ma hit her stupendous fit about God punishing her for all her *MAGIC POWERS*, Mr Gardenzio went to have his tenth bucket of coffee and I was sent back shopping for a new toilet pan. Ma ordered one just like our dead old pal even if it was like, hundred years old and hardly flashed anything down. Whatever you put there surfed on the rips of running water and proudly plopped back on the bowl. Still, Ma believes old things are better things, plus cheaper, and bought one from the Internet on a massive discount. I used all public toilets in the nearest cafes and officially declare I prefer new things. You simply push the button there and the poo vanishes as if by magic, not waits for you to PUSH IT MANUALLY. Anyway, the next day, I took Amazons to collect my new toilet coz Ma refused to pay the delivery. At the shop, it turned out they didn’t even wrap it up. And it weighted a complete tonne! I said, What a chance to pump our Shaolin warrior power. Agnieszka said, Quite! and took the plastic tank, like a princess. Hecta and I grabbed that anvil-like bum-throne and kung-fu-dragged it along the streets sweating and panting like all proper warriors proper should. Met our Domestic science teacher Mrs Jennings doing her shopping. She gasped as she saw us coming her way and lamented that we brought her bad luck with that empty vessel. It’s like having all thirteen black cats and a magpie crossing your path in one go. I thought, empty toilet can’t be worth luck than NO TOILET AT HOME AT ALL. Then it turned out it WAS a bad luck coz that bloody WC didn’t fit in anywhere. It had so monstrous bowl, it was destined to serve giants with butts as big as shopping malls. Mr Gardenzio got ready to rematch it while Ma phoned the shop to blow their brains off for selling us a Cthulhu’s loo, and we were sent to get it hell outa the house and over a mile back. BACK. TO. THE. SHOP. I think Mrs Jennings had a heart attack when our paths crossed again today. We ordered a standard one AND A DELIVERY SERVICE. But they will only bring it tomorrow. I’m a homeless kitten now, Dad. I have no personal closet, i. e. no territory to mark, no roots, no claims. Even monks have somewhere to pee, right? I’m a gypsy tumbleweed. I will sleep at Hecta’s tonight. Gotta go do my business in the bushes till the rest of my life if Mr Gardenzio doesn’t box it all back together. Write to you soon,                                                                                Your gremlin Skipper