Here, I am. Twelve years old ( I think, I'm horrible with numbers). I turn the washing machine on, as I wait for my microwave to fry my pop tart to the marshmallow rivers my thighs ADORE.
I wait, an entire 30 seconds, fingers twitching, on the beaten remote-control. How long are commercial breaks? All I want to see is, Prison Break.
In hindsight this reveals nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe, my pop tart burning more than it should have.
Flash-forward, a good 8 years or so. Here, I am. Again. Still unsure, exactly how old. Once again, in my living room. Now, my pop-tort transformed in to oatmeal.
My show of choice, translated Turkish soap operas. I turn on the washing machine. Then, I am met with pitch darkness. Ok, not exactly pitch darkness (my phone does have a flashlight after all).
Instantly, I remember... I scold myself. Christine, focus, you are not in Geneva anymore. Don't you know the generator (back up for the electricity) cannot handle more than a certain amount of amps .
Ok Christine, you have to pick. Clean your clothes or oatmeal. Decisions. Decisions.
Electricity, for 12 years of my life, you were my constant companion.
You are my hero, at times. But, also my nemesis. The object of my id and whims. I use you. I abuse you. I abuse your body, your energy, your circuit.
I abuse you, so that I can be a bum on the internet. I abuse you to watch Netflix.
Yet, in the very few times where the generator was faulty, your absence was admittedly annoying. But then, I went for a walk. And, I surprisingly enjoyed it.
Electricity, you have become so entwined in my identity. Sometimes I wonder if I would cope without you?
You are in our homes. You are in our beds. You are in our hands.
I only hope, you have not infested our brains yet. For there, I hope is still : electricity free.