Babylon (Le lit est froid)

'Sup. Name's Luna Finch. As you have probably guessed, I'm not a gangster, nor am I affiliated to a pimp or gun-wielder in any way. Actually, the closest I think I've ever been to a gun was in middle school when this kid, Charlie Wooten, brought his water gun and sprayed everyone and we all caught colds and then ignored him for the rest of the two years we had left of kindergarten. If you ever see him, tell him I still hate water guns to this day. Messed up little bug.

Since you're supposed to be my diary and be an annoying reminder of all the stupid shit I've done, I'll start off by telling you I did not have a happy childhood. At all.

You know those TV families that seem happy and fulfilled once the camera's on, but after or before that they're all scrambling around rehearsing or just doing whatever they feel like without being choked to death by a social standard because they're just "actors"? Let me tell you that applies everywhere. My parents were normal people, with no amazing talents or riches. They're actually the first people who taught me that Love is a talent. As I have previously said, they lacked any sort of talent, which means they didn't love each other. At all. And what made it worse was the fact that they didn't even like each other, as friends or as anything. It was clear to me that they were not, or had ever been, in love.

They never got a divorce. They never considered taking a break. They just let me, and my 4 year old younger brother, Joaquin, watch them argue and witness the love fading until even reality had blurred its edges with those of fantasy. Perfect family when we had visitors, broken when there was no one to witness.

Because they saw things differently, my mother and father liked to have people backing them up. Since my brother didn't even know what an argument was, I was constantly torn between the two, trying to please them and make the atmosphere less tense. Sometimes I just wished they would've gotten divorced and leave it at that. Whatever kids say, watching your parents argue every single night is worse than having two Christmases, two New Years and two Easters. And you can quote me on that.

The conclusion: Love is just a fickle, fickle excuse and it expires as soon as boredom seeps in.





Kent Greer, 21. I drink, I smoke, I paint. I'm from Europe. Thank God Oprah's ending her show. Fucked up family. Only child.

Can I go now?