“Waah!” Next moment I knew, I was on the floor, surrounded by bits of porcelain and shards of glass. There went the sink and the mirror, again, for the second time this week.

Chapter 2: Morning with a hangover.

As I looked into the mirror, last night’s foul mood returned in full. I had bags under my droopy eyes the size of a planet, my hair stuck everywhere but where it was supposed to stick, my mouth was open in a constant yawn and apparently I’d misplaced my pyamas somewhere during the night. Simply put, I looked like a wreck. I felt like one as well. At least I still knew where my pants were, on my head like some sort of silly hat. Talk about displacement.
“Dang it, not again. Ugh, this so sucks big time with strawberries-and-whipped-cream-on-top-of-a-kingsized-icecream.” I moaned and glared at my reflection. Well dang it, now I was drooling as well! Just what was wrong with this world?!

I managed to tear my eyes away from the breathing nightmare and check the clock in my living-room. 5:36 am. Had I really been under the sheets that short? I swear I’d gone to bed at around 22:00 pm. Maybe I should just go back and catch some more sleep. On the other hand, I had a job that begun at 9:30 am, so maybe I shouldn’t. What if I slept till lunchtime?

I pulled my face back to the mirror. The sudden movement made a lance of solid agony stab me behind the eyes and directly into my brains. I clutched my head with one hand while holding on to the sink with the other for support. It gave me serious doubts about getting any further rest. Not with that headache. At that time, I was sorely tempted to swallow a few handfuls of pills but my doctor had explicitly told me not to. Had something to do with my stomach still being in the recovery-phase and unable to process large amounts of chemicals. Something like that. I figured a shower might help just as well though so I stretched to my toes to get at the inconveniently high cabinet for some soap.

“Waah!” Next moment I knew, I was on the floor, surrounded by bits of porcelain and shards of glass. There went the sink and the mirror, again, for the second time this week. Geez, the plumber really must love me. I swear, he’ll be a full-blown millionaire by Christmas if this keeps up. I sputtered some random nonsense in the fountain of water that spilled forth from the broken pipe, right into my face. Once I’d gotten over my shock though, I stumbled back to my feet and returned to the combined livingroom/bedroom/kitchen, the only other room in my apartment, where I snatched the phone.

I tapped my foot impatiently as the device beeped.
“Silverglass apartments, you’re speaking to the caretaker. May I help you?” A sleepy voice finally grunted on the other side of the line after two whole minutes.
“Yeah, cut off my watersupply, pronto! I’ve got a bloody waterfall going off here!” I yelled back. The jet of water died out immediately. The bathroom was ruined, again, and I’d just shut off my apartment’s water. So much for a shower, if I didn’t count the cold one I just got.
“Two times in one week, and both times in the middle of the night. Don’t make a habit of it or I’ll kick you out. I rather like my sleep.” With those soft words, my caretaker hung up. If making me panic had been his plan, it worked. Livingspace is expensive and I definitely didn’t want to give up my shack.

Amazingly, I felt much better now that I was soaked. Or at least, I did at first. When the first drops of blood began to trickle down my nose a bit later, that feeling diminished quite a bit. I inspected my face with a finger and found the wound soon enough. A small gash right on the forehead that bled far more than its modest size would make me expect.
“Note to self: Buy a mirror of bullet-proof, shock-resistant glass. And while I’m on a roll, buy one of those kitchen-stair thingies. That, or place things where I can reach them without jumping and banging my head against the mirror.” I told myself after I’d put a bandage on the wound.

5:42 am. Three more hours till I had to go places. Three more hours with nothing to do but lie on the sofa with a hangover from here to Tokyo. What to do, what to do? Reading? A single glance at the pile of magazines stuffed under the sofa made me reconsider. I’d read and reread each one of them like a dozen times. I’d only get bored from that. What to do? I absentmindedly picked up one of the magazines and flicked through its pages, more focused on my internal dialogue than on the articles. I could really use that shower right now, broken bathroom or not. An idea struck me just as I thought that I’d reached the depths of despair.

Five minutes later, I balanced precariously on the pile of old magazines which had been relocated to the bathroom, where it was soaking up the water lying on the floor. Now, I could easily reach the cabinet and grab the soap. I figured that sacrificing a year worth of my favourite magazines was a payable price for a good shower. Besides, I could always download the issues from the internet. Maybe I should do that anyway, it would save trees and livingspace.

My climb down to solid ground was less than elegant and would have resulted in another bandaged disaster if I didn’t have a pile of soaked paper to break my fall. Now I had only suffered critical damage to my dignity. I pulled off the strips of paper that clung to my skin and dove into my wardrobe for a towel and a bathrobe. After that, it was off to the neighbours. I hesitated and fidgeted about for like half a minute before actually opening the door and leaving my apartment. It would be the first time for me to go outside wearing nothing more but a bathrobe and a pair of slippers. But meh, there weren’t any windows in the corridor and the chance I’d actually run into someone this early in the morning was like nonexistent. So I told myself not to be so scared of appearing to be indecent and just open the dang door already.

I let out an annoyed sigh and leaned my back against the door of the Hendersons. I never realized I would feel frightened with the prospect of ringing the doorbell.
“Bah, I’m not worried about how I look. I just don’t want to wake anyone up in the morning. I mean, those people need sleep like everyone else.” I argued with myself out loud. Too loud.
“Wah!” Again, I went for the floor, this time because the door I’d been leaning against opened inwards. If only I hadn’t been whining so much, I would have heard the footsteps or the key being turned in the lock. Now, I had the honour of looking up at my neighbour’s face from a very low vantage point. Flat on my back.

“Oh my, are you alright? You’re not hurt, Emmy? Nothing broken? How’s your neck? I read that it’s really bad for your neck to fall like that. And oh no, you’ve got a bandage on your forehead? What happened, are you alright? Maybe you should go to a doctor.” Yup, that was good old Nance Henderson, always fearing the worst. I sat up quickly and then pulled myself back onto my feet.
“I’m fine, really. Nothing to worry about.” I muttered while dusting off my bathrobe. The place was spotless as always, but manners dictated that I made the gesture. I stole a glance at the older woman. We were like polar opposites, which always had me wondering.

She looked a hundred, I looked twelve. She was fivehundred and sixty, I was seventeen. She was 1.76 metres, I was 1.52. Our weights were the same, 80, yet I looked half-anorexic. She was opposed to anything involving body alterations beyond the standard anti-aging program, I had embraced it fully. She kept her place cleaner than an industrial laserlens, mine looked as if a hurricane had passed through. She dressed in inconspicuous grey dresses down to her ankles, I loved frilly blue ones that only went just beyond the knees. She kept her white hair in an elegant knot that looked like a donut, something that took her two hours each morning just to get done. I just let my green hairdo fall down to my knees in whatever way gravity desired and restricted myself to five quick strokes with a brush. She praised a healthy diet of bread, carrots and oranges, in three meager meals. I ate fries, hamburgers and the daily menu at the restaurant just around the corner, four times a day in two-person portions. Yup, it was a miracle we could stand being neighbours.

“Umm, Emmy? Why did you ring the doorbell? I asked you three times already. Wake up.” Nance whispered urgently, glancing over her shoulder at the bedroom all the time. I broke my train of thought and gathered my words again. Wow, her hair actually looked like a mess. Hah, rough night.
“That, ah….Is it inconvenient? I could come back later.” I whispered myself. Peter Henderson, her husband, was one of the crankiest fellows I’d ever met, if his sleep was interrupted. I seriously didn’t want to ruin his morning.
“Not inconvenient for me? But maybe you should first use a hairdryer back home. You’re still dripping from your shower.” Nance was about to close the door when she stopped and simply stared at my face.
“Ah, dang it. I’m blushing, ain’t I?” I whimpered which got me a stern eyebrow. Ah, right. She abhorred crude language, even a lame dang it.

“Well, about the shower. Err…..I was trying to take one but……How to explain?…..Uhhmm” I began to stammer and then took a deep breath to calm my nerves. I knew I was going to unleash some serious panic.
“I tried to take the soap out of the cabinet, lost my balance, slammed my face against the mirror, shattering it, knocked down the sink and broke the plumbing.” I finished rapidly. I nearly had to stifle a yawn when Nance’s hands flew up to her face. Yup, panic attack.
“You shattered a mirror? That brings bad luck? And you did it with enough force to cut your forehead and knock down the sink?” She panted. Then she turned around quickly. I clamped my hands over my ears and awaited the inevitable.
“PETER! WAKE UP AND CALL AN AMBULANCE! EMMY IS INJURED!” Nance shrieked.

“WHAT, WOMAN?! DON’T MAKE SUCH RACKET IN THE MORNING!” Peter howled back and was up at the door in an instant. He looked like a male version of his wife, probably because he also looked a hundred years old. Weird fellows, to pick that age and physique when you could be a totally breathtaking person in your early twenties. Nance repeated her own words and I clamped my ears down harder. All this noise was not going to help me lose my headache.
“I’M FINE, REALLY! I JUST WANTED TO ASK IF I COULD BORROW YOUR BATHROOM FOR A SHOWER BECAUSE MINE IS RUINED! AND PLEASE STOP YELLING AT EACH OTHER CAUSE I’VE GOT A HEADACHE FROM HERE TO TOKYO AND TOKYO IS NOT AROUND THE CORNER!” I yelled at the two. Ugh, I nearly tipped over from my headache right there. I held on to the doorframe just to keep standing. Of course, this meant I had to release my hold on one of my ears.

Fortunately, the Henderson’s had stopped shouting and now simply stood dumbfounded.
“Ah, right. Your bathroom broke. Odd, didn’t you get a new one installed yesterday? A bit quick to break it, don’t you think? I advice you not to hire the cheapest company this time.” Peter commented calmly while scratching the back of his head. Nance was having trouble controlling her heartbeat and she was still partway in a state of panic.
“Ah, that’s right. And you fell right over when I opened the door. And oh, now you’re leaning against the doorframe for support. Are you sure you’re alright?” She pleaded. I glared.
“Yes, I’m fine, I told you that a dozen times already. I’ve just got early morning syndrome so I’m really cranky.” I tried hard to keep from snapping.
“Whatever is the case, go ahead Emmy.” Peter interjected.
“Though be careful with our bathroom, you are awfully clumsy this morning.” He then added, after I’d tripped over the carpet and nearly fallen onto my face. Dang it.

http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/226706



Holy Hell, I did write something... 1065 words, for 1/2 of the first chapter. I blame you people! now, if only I could find someone who can read Serbian...

So far I'm at 5000 words of utter crap. 165 pages to go until I call this pos quits. I really don't like this story buts its not the story as much as I just haven't sat down and wrote for so long I just suck at it. So yeah, it's good for me to write crap.

...or, you can be like me and GIVE absolutely no crap about it! Like, If I decide to write 5-6 hundred words more, it's OK, and if I decide to do absolutely [donkey honk] it's also OK. Not like I know how's my story ending, in any case.

I believe that this is actual attitude that is required for NaNoWriMo. Editing/fixing comes later. For now, just spew the words out. I also do not know how my story is going to end.