Aiguilles

Des aiguilles. First thing that comes to mind when I say “bloodsuckers”: needles.

I got a blue black on my arm, a small stain on my new sweater and an excuse to eat sweets.

This morning, I woke up, took a shower and got changed and that’s when my mum sees me in my skirt and heels and asks me to dress down. I refuse. I know I’m going to have to see the people at the social service after going to the blood clinic and getting some papers at my old University but just because I’m dressed nicely mean I’m rich. Even, if I were rich doesn’t mean I wouldn’t deserve social money. We pay for this; we have right to it when in need no matter our social status, right?

No matter what, my mum puts on her best sobbing voice and acts likes she’s going to cry at one moment or another. I’m adamant: I’m going to wear those heels whether she likes it or not.

She goes out to walk the dog and I gather up my doctor demand and apartment contract and yes, I do change my clothes. I don’t know why I did it but when my mum sees me walk out the house, her face beams like I just saved a helpless whale entangled in fishing nets. The whole situation seems rather ironic to me due to the whole “My Son is Gay” blog post I posted the day before. I should have kept the skirt but I’m already running late for the clinic.

I sign in at 9:10 AM and am out and eating a brownie at 9:20.

All formalities should be that easy.

The faculty’s secretary is closed and I’m missing papers for my social service interview. The lady says to get them for Monday on her desk and everyone will be happy. I thank her. She understands.

I really could have worn my skirt and stilettoes. Ma jupe et talons aiguilles.