For example, there’s my lace dress.
The second in the row, that has a back cleavage down to my hips. The nightgown, that could easily play part in a documentary film introducing the lives of the Venice prostitutes. The third in the row is light coloured and deeply cut out. I bought this one for summer night theater shows. But as long as there’s theater, there’s no warm weather, and when it’s warm, there’s no theater. In case both cases happen at the same time, then I am at lake Balaton for sure on holiday, sprayed with moscito killer, wearing an old and saggy pair of shorts, rushing to the back seats in my flip-flop. There is no specific reason for me to have a separate shelf for these dresses.
Unless I look at this actress, who winks back at me in the mirror. She makes me wear high heels I hop and wobble in.
„Why do you act out, you don’t even have an audience” – I warn her.
She bends her head backwards and starts laughing. Just like Marylin Monroe, Edit Domján, Shakira or Irén Psota.
„Ham” – I whisper, still I keep watching her every move.
She is the one responsible for the necklines secured with safety pins. All my pink clothes are her fault only. She had a part in buying my light blue mini-skirt and the 8cm long golden earring. The whore.
Moreover, there is for example that leather jacket.
The fourth in the row. By the time I worked as system-organizer at the Great Government Office I started to feel undeniable attraction to the motorbike-outfits. At this strict hierarchical organization, where professional issues get politicized. Impossible and personal traits changing situations, anamorphosis. The outcomes of my two years there, up until my dismissal notice were 6 leather jackets, 3 leather skirts and a pair of look-like-leather pants. At such a place, where men wear black suits like they are crows and are seriously official even in the elevator. No chance whatsoever to listen to Quimby or Tamás Cseh while working. The urge to mutiny set all the way to the maximum. Mass desire to „somewhereelsecountry” during these two years, where I successfully arrived on a nice day.
Now the Revolutionist is at least as active, as the Actress.
She buys lime colored training shoes, in which she runs breathtaking laps until she passes out. She is never aging. Though nowadays she screams less feministlike expressions, she is unbeatable in hunting down unique jewelry and enjoys excessively the freelancer lifestyle. When I am holding tight onto the rail with white fingers, she’s laughing so hard on the roller coaster. Sometimes its too much for me handling a company. It makes me dizzy. But she’s swinging Steve Job’s memoirs in her hand reproachingly.
A mother lives in my closet as well.
She would love to cook in her jogging suit, but the others won’t let her. Walking around in a pair of ripped jeans, gardening in quoted shirts she gets from her daughter, yes, that’s her. She’s the most tired in spite the fact that she pops the most amount of vitamins. She would be able to fall asleep without a shower in her cotton socks, if she wasn’t kept an eye on.
When we stand next to each other, my daughter and I. During those times I don’t only see her teeth continously falling out or her big, flamboyant hair. A youtube rapper’s light shade is also there. She is the most famous person in the family. Her video of making breakfast, with the intro made by herself, was liked by a hundred thousand people. She dances, scratches, minecrafts, posts and likes. And everyone is paying attention only to her.