Time just flies by these days - counting down exactly three months from tomorrow until the big move! And meanwhile, get the scoop:

Retro vibes: I read a Sweet Valley High novel today and I've looked up the series on YouTube and it appears to be very nineties and very shallow, which is just perfect to me. You should check that jewel out if you have a thing for good old gossip and innocent intrigue. And who hasn't?

Shopping high: It's real and should be studied in medical school. All I bought today is one little black pleated satin skirt and I'm already feeling more together. Imagine what wonders a full on shopping spree could do to me!

Speaking of meds: I got an immunization shot three days ago and today I'm finally able to lift my arm above 45 degrees without a hurl of excruciating pain. What is up with those muscle cramps? Thank God it was the left arm or I wouldn't have gotten anything done, for instance....

Calling people and asking them why the hell they're not replying to my emails. It's a fun and, I fear, pretty common thing to do as a journalist, nudging people when probably all they wanted was to ignore you and be left in peace about it. But we don't leave anyone in peace - a fact that, as someone very (annoyingly) wise mentioned to me, I should be able to embrace if I really wanted to do this job. It's a thin line between love and hate, is all I'm saying.

So what do I wear? After kind of being sick and kind of being productive the last few days I very solidly have plans for the weekend. One of them involves that party I was already at last year (leather jacket, anyone?). I still need a present (well, a card. It's that friend who wants to travel the world and support himself so he gets raw cash) and an outfit. Everytime I meet new people I have the ambition to live up to their expectations when they learn I'm a fashion student. They usually overhear the journalist part, you see. So is it gonna be the velvet bodysuit and new skirt? I almost want to think so.

June is already fabulous for being a full-on summer month, and it is one step closer to me getting off school for eight whole months. Let's not waste that.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I actually got myself an internship for next semester! Shoot the applause! I mean, not getting one would have been very bad, seeing as it's compulsary and there's nothing else to do, but hey, it's still good news!

Moreover, and I expect a drumroll for this, the internship is far far away from where I live, so I am going to M O V E to....Hamburg, Germany, kind of really in the north (so I'll be freezing cold from September to February, but that's nothing new, really)! Now you may be rolling your eyes and yawning and asking yourself when the fun part is going to start, but let me assure you that it is indeed going to be an entertaining sight to watch me try and handle life aaaall byyyyy myyyyseeeelf, for the following reasons:

I have no clue as to how to operate a washing machine, nor a dishwasher, nor those sci-fi vacuumers that creep around the floor doing they're own thing. I'm actually a bit scared of the latter (it's moving! It's beeping! It's getting stuck under stuff!) It may sound bratty, but it's the undeniable truth.

I don't think I ever slept a single night in a house or apartment by myself. Even at summer camp, when I had a single room, there were kids I knew right behind the wall. Again, roll away, I just never happened to be alone at night. Woops.

I hate complete silence when I am alone; even when I was little, I would put on children's tapes on my cassette player, not neccessarily to listen to them, but to make for some background noise. I still do that with music, or YouTube videos about the manufacturing of ballet shoes or whatever, and sometimes, I'll even chatter to myself (I'm sorry you had to learn this) or, more sensibly, I'll sing. Like really training my chords. I wonder if the neighbours are gonna like my taste in songs. The best possible case would be a producer living down the hall who's gonna whisk me away to the studio, stat. The worst case, however, would be if said producer (or anyone, really) feels I insult their musical ear and votes to throw me out.

I'm always scared of being late when there's no one around to confirm my timing's right, so whenever that happens, I end up getting up at the crack of dawn, arriving so early that the doors won't be opened and I'll be awkwardly camping in front of the building on my third coffee when the editors arrive, and they'll throw a dime into my empty cups, and then we'll meet again when I'll get introduced as the intern, and we won't make eye contact, ever.

These are the points I can think of off the top of my head, but I'm sure that we'll discover some more while we're at it. Still, I can't help being really excited about this drastic turn of events - let me count the ways of that excitement another time.

Until then, join me on my level of psychedness!

Love,

Rosy Smith

My dad asked me if I was going out the other night, 'cause I had my brightest red lipstick on, but unfortunately, my plans for the evening consisted of taping my mom's TV show (she was out dancing. Find the flaw). Anyways, I told him that's because I went to the hair salon. See, when you have to stare at yourself for an hour in unflattering light, you gotta do a little something pretty to your face. It worked quite well, actually. I got tiny corkscrew curls done with a scary looking hot tool (sometimes, the stylist, who's 16 weeks pregnant, got this spaced-out look in her eyes and smoke descended from my head and I'd get a bit worried, but let's face it, there's not much damage left to do to my hair, so).

Oh and while we're in the chair, let's all remember never to share a Cloud with a guy, even when you get married and have a kid, 'cause you may still break up and have to endure the fact that one day you look at your Ipad pictures and see a little (or a lot, depending on your ex's type) more of his new girl than you ever feared you would. And then your friend, the hair stylist, will be in danger to lose her job because she might not be able to withstand the urge to let the razor slip a little when he's coming to get his lying scalp fixed.

Fun fact, after having read way too many articles on people who've had strokes after going to the hair salon, I am honestly scared of getting my hair washed there. You know how it's, like, the most uncomfortable sensation on the planet when your neck is placed onto the rim of the sink? I tried to hold my head up hovering about it, but I lack the necessary muscles for that. So I just got really really tense and that made it hurt even more and then I tried to get myself to just relax and enjoy the back massage from the chair but then I thought "What if  I just said something it would safe me and if I didn't, something terrible will happen, due solely to the fact that I was too shy and too distracted by the freaking back massage to speak up?"

In the evening, I got a little headache and I had to ask my mom to do the FAST test on me and have her tell me that I'm completely overreacting until I could lay back and watch "The One In Barbados" (thinking about it, I could go finish that now).

Now my hair is alarmingly short but I've learned to accept that a long time ago, when I stopped having to be bribed to get it cut (I just want to state that my hair's never again been as long as it was when I was nine, so I was completely right in making a big deal out of it).

Love,

Rosy Smith

I rediscovered Cinderella 87 -  an Italian 80s musical made-for-TV movie I've never seen but subconcsiously listened to for years because my mom taped the soundtrack when she was a teenager; I bet that's why I'd think running off with a band guy to become a singer is an excellent idea.

Anyways, I think I was onto some very specific point here but I fear I forgot....it had to do something with clothes?

Ah, yes, got it!

Okay so recently, I was telling someone about my driving exams (yes we're talking plural, can we let it go now?) and how for the first one, I wore a purple tank top and black harem pants, an improvised outfit because I was due to go on vacation shortly after and all my summer clothes were packed up, and how that was a clear indicator for me to fail that day. I also told them about the second exam, where I chose to go for a "comfortable" look, which is always, always the wrong decision for me (so I should have known) consisting of a white t-shirt, a beige cardigan, light blue boyfriend jeans and Converse. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Probably something like "As long as I'm "comfortable", I'll be able to fully concentrate on my driving", which has, as you know, so not proven to work. Concentrated on failing, that did the trick. When I finally passed, I was wearing grey jeans and my beloved black knit backless sweater that keeps charmingly falling off one shoulder. That's what I call a winning outfit. However, the person I was talking to was most astonished by the fact that I recalled every single clothing item I've worn to those tragic occurrences. Like I'd think back and see myself sitting there wearing some clouds of grey smoke or whatever my mind makes up when it's not able to reconstruct stuff. Hello? I remember what each of us wore when we first met (a citrus colored dress shirt with tiny white checks, light shorts / a beige lace shirt with rose print, my tan suede miniskirt, ballet flats). I think it's common courtesy.

Also, to take this a bit further, I feel like there is this phenomenon called "Clothing Karma". I for one avoid wearing certain pieces of clothing that I've had bad experiences in for a while afterwards, 'cause they're too closely tied to the situation. That's why I neglected wearing the grey shirt with leather details I wore to my night driving lesson (to stay with that topic) for quite a long time (That was one terrible driving lesson, which says something, as I can't even remember a particularly decent one), especially for more lessons, because what if I simply can't drive well in this shirt?

I can't be the first to make that up. You must have some weird skeletons in your closet, too, haven't you lovelies?

Love,

Rosy Smith