Until she meets Masimo, the new singer for the Stiff Dylans. The Sex God is gone, but here comes the Dreamboat, and Georgia's away laughing on a fast camel (whatever that means).
|Series:||Confessions of Georgia Nicolson Series , #5|
|Product dimensions:||5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.68(d)|
|Lexile:||800L (what's this?)|
|Age Range:||12 - 17 Years|
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Away Laughing on a Fast CamelEven More Confessions of Georgia Nicolson
alone, all aloney,
on my owney
on my owney
saturday march 5th
11:00 a.m. as the crow flies
Gray skies, gray cluds, gray knickers.
I can't believe my knickers are gray, but it is typico of my life. My mutti put my white lacy knickers in the wash with Vati's voluminous black shorts (!) and now they are gray.
If there was a medal for craposity in the mutti department, she would win it hands down.
I am once again wandering lonely as a clud through this Vale of Tears.
I wish there was someone I could duff up but I have no one to blame. Except God, and although He is everywhere at once He is also invisible. (Also, the last person who tried to duff God up was Satan, and he ended up standing on his head in poo with hot swords up his bum-oley.)
This is my fabulous life: the Sex God left for Whakatane last month and he has taken my heart with him.
Not literally, of course, otherwise there would be a big hole in my nunga-nungas.
11:28 a.m. And also I would be dead. Which quite frankly would be a blessing in disguise.
It is soooo boring being brokenhearted. My eyes look like little piggie eyes from crying. Which makes my nose look ginormous.
Still, at least I am a lurker-free zone.
Although with my luck there will be a lurker explosion any minute.
Alison Bummer once had a double yolker on her neck; she had a big spot and it had a baby spot growing on top of it.
I'll probably get that.
Phoned my very bestest pally, Jas.
"Jas, it's me."
"Jas, you don't sound very pleased to hear from me."
"Well . . . I would be, but it's only five minutes since you last phoned and Tom is just telling me about this thing you can do. You go off into the forest and -- "
"This hasn't got anything to do with badgers, has it?"
"Well . . . no, not exactly, it's a wilderness course and you learn how to make fire and so on."
Oh great balls of merde here we go, off into the land of the terminally insane, i.e., Jasland. I said as patiently as I could because I am usually nice(ish) to the disadvantaged, "You are going off on a course to learn how to make fire?"
"Yes, exciting, eh?"
"Why do you have to go on a course to learn how to open a box of matches?" "You can't use matches."
"Because it's a wilderness course."
"No, wrong, Jas, it's a crap course where people are too mean to give you any matches."
She did that sighing business.
"Look, Georgia, I know you are upset about Robbie going off to Kiwi-a-gogo land."
"And you not having a boyfriend or anything."
"Yes, well . . ."
"And, you know, being all lonely, with no one to really care about you."
"Yes, alright Jas, I know all th -- "
"And the days stretching ahead of you without any meaning and -- "
"Jas, shut up."
"I'm only trying to say that -- "
"That is not shutting up, Jas. It is going on and on."
She got all huffy and Jasish.
"I must go now. Tom has got some knots to show me."
I was in the middle of saying, "Yes I bet he has . . ." in an ironic and très amusant way when she brutally put the phone down.
Alone, all aloney.
On my owney.
The house is empty, too. Everyone is out at Grandad's for lunch.
I was nearly made to go until I pointed out that I am in mourning and unable to eat anything because of my heartbreak.
Mine is a pathetico tale that would make anyone who had a heart weep, but that does not include Vati. He said he would gladly leave me behind because talking to me made him realize the fun he had had when he accidentally fell into the open sewers in India.
Looking out of my bedroom window. Entombed in my room forever. Like in that book The Prisoner of Brenda or whatever it is called.
Except I could go out if I wanted.
But I don't want to.
I may never go out again.
This is boring. I've been cooped up for about a million years. What time is it?
"What time is it?"
"Why are you saying 'what' for? I merely asked you a civil question."
"Why don't you look at your own clock?"
"Jas, have you noticed I am very, very upset and that my life is over? Have you noticed that?"
"Yes I have, because you have been on the phone telling me every five minutes for a month."
"Well, I am soo sorry if it is too much trouble to tell your very bestest pal the time. Perhaps my eyes are too swollen from tears to see the clock." "Well, are they?"
"Well, how come you could see to dial my number?"
Mrs. Huffy Knickers was so unreasonable.
"Anyway, I'm not your bestest pal anymore. Nauseating P. Green is your bestest pal now that you rescued her from the clutches of the Bummer twins."
I slammed down the phone.
Brilliant. Sex Godless and now friend to P. Green, that well-known human goldfish.
Sacré bloody bleu and triple merde.
Oh Robbie, how could you leave me and go off to the other (incredibly crap) side of the world? What has Kiwi-a-gogo land got that I haven't? Besides forty million sheep.
I think I'll play the tape he gave me again. It's all I have left to remind me of him and our love. That will never die.Continues...
Excerpted from Away Laughing on a Fast Camel by Rennison, Louise Excerpted by permission.
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