Gold nails

I write immersed in the smell of urine. I often write in the bathroom. Hidden. Often at night. In the upstairs bathroom. The small one. The sound of the keys hitting the walls. Tum tum tum. A few days ago, I saw a cashier. She had painted nails. The pinky was blue and the thumb was gold. The other nails faded and created something between blue and gold. I don’t know if they were designs. But the gold nail was very beautiful. Shiny. While I was throwing the roast and potatoes into the bag, I didn’t know if I should ask her to let me look better. 

Forty euros. Not just for the roast. I bought more meat. All on sale, more or less. Now the meat is fresh in the freezer. Not all of it. Some have already been grilled. The picanha. Grilled quickly over the coals. I learned a new technique. With oil-soaked paper. You set it on fire. You throw oil on it. Seed oil. You throw small pieces of fir or pine wood on it. I don’t know. They burn quickly. Then you pour some coals over it. This time I used small pieces. The kind you buy cheaply. The ones everyone advises against. As usual, having a tumor is very advantageous. Statistically, I should be fine. I can use anything carcinogenic. I have retroactive cancer. Already done with that. Now I can move on. It’s like when they ask me if I don’t eat too much meat. If I’m not risking cancer. Hey, I haven’t eaten meat for about twenty years. I’m just averaging it out. Just averaging it out.

The gold nails. I just sent a message to a friend. She can’t stand this feminine side of me. She can’t stand anything, really. I can’t stand her either, which is why I write to her. Each of us does this for our own reasons. It’s funny.

Gold nails. I need to start buying nail polishes for myself. The anise perfume I bought years ago. A scent from Etro at a perfume shop. I also have one with citrus notes. I used to buy different ones. If I went to see her, I would use one of those two perfumes. Gold nail polish and anise scent, the one she hates.

I don’t know if she ever washes her long brown hair; it’s a shame. Messy, messy hair.

I could also do the opposite: wear a gold perfume and anise nail polish instead. I need to check if those exist; I'd report her for indecency otherwise! A shower and washing your hair isn’t harmful; it’s normal to wash up.

If I went to see her, I'd take a shower, mess up my hair like I've been doing lately, put on some anise perfume, and then some gold nail polish on top of that. She would hate me for it! In my head, there’s a Nirvana song playing. I think it's "Territorial Pissings". 

Kurt Cobain's screams remind me of my teenage years; I'm not sure if my parents screamed more than Kurt did back then. I didn’t have a stereo; that came later. I had an old CD player connected to a big battery-operated speaker, cranked up as loud as possible. Screams upon screams.

The screams continued in the car, whether from my parents or Kurt. Kurt screamed while I drove; we arrived in Milan with the speaker parked between me and a friend lying next to me. Who was sleeping, I think. That night after the concert, the speaker was on the hood of the car; I don’t remember what played but do remember the volume. Then I'd go home. Screams more or less. Thinking about it now, I wouldn’t even be able to drive anymore.

"Territorial Pissings" still echoes in my mind.

A girl from back then gave me "In Utero."

I walk in the dark...