Sleepyhead

Adventures To Rainbowtown

I’ve always been far too lazy for confrontation.

I’m not particularly scared of it, in fact, I usually find highly intense face to face screaming matches to be quite entertaining and even more amusing. But on the flip side, my lack of aspirations and desire to just lie on the couch eating pringles has prevented me from ever really doing something about my problems.

Suppose that explains a bit why I’ve got no major chosen for Uni and why I’m working as a personal assistant on a tour instead of having actual skills, but alas, Sutton Lark is Sutton Lark.

And we all know how that goes when she tries to change.

Once, in primary school, a mate of mine was going around telling everyone that I had warts on my feet and instead of boobs I had some strange sort of alien marking going across my chest. For weeks I was teased and tormented by kids, calling me The Sutexperiment and asking what it felt like when I was probed. But being me and having generally no fucks for what people thought of me, I ended up letting them actually think I was from outer space until we started showering after gym class I got tits before everyone else.

Good things do happen to good people, guys.

But that’s not the point. The point is, I drag things on too long. I let them get out of control because frankly it takes too much effort to do anything about it. Suppose you could say sometimes it works out, but most of the time it blows up in my face like a giant A-bomb. For example, The Broken Vase Incident of 2011: I may or may not have broken an antique vase that my father had spent months tracking down on one of those snore-worthy Antique Roadshow-esque television shows.

Ari and I had been mildly drunk at the time, barely coherent, and completely horny. And so when he picked me up and shoved me onto the end table in my living room, the vase fell to the ground and shattered into a million tiny little pieces (much as my father’s heart did once he saw the damage many weeks later). And granted, I probably should have handled the situation right away, scooped it all up and scoured the Internet for a cheap imitation. But alas, I just let Ari shag me on the table and then on the sofa and eventually in my bedroom before remembering that it was broken. And at that point I was far too exhausted to do anything about it, so we buried the chips in the backyard.

And when my parents came back from their weekend holiday, my dad was all ready with his polishing cloth to shine up his little baby. When he didn’t find it, he blamed it on thieves and called the police. He spent months searching it down, hanging up posters like it was some bloody lost puppy, and even set up a reward system for money (that me and my mates found a way of taking advantage of, truthfully). But soon enough, that summer after he had lost all hope, he decided that he’d build himself a nice gazebo with a hot tub to steam away the pain.

And thus, whilst digging, they found the vase pieces.

Needless to say, I was grounded for quite some time. It was fairly easy to pin the crime on his only daughter, seeing as I accidentally buried my house keys with it, complete with a charming key chain that my best mate Bonnie got for me in Tokyo, which had a very stereotypical looking Asian-girl making a peace sign. And I showed it off for weeks when I got it.

Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed they were gone. My usual means for getting in and out of my house were sneaking through the basement window at three in the morning, anyway.

But, I digress. As you can see confrontations and fessing up to my problems aren’t my thing. Or my strong suit. Or really anything that is Sutton Lark related. I’m just a mess of laziness, long legs, and little aspirations.

And so there I stood. In the middle of some tiny kitchen-like room in the middle of some random mall in God Knows Where in the UK, crotch firmly pressed against a certain Curly Haired Fuck, and on the receiving end of a particularly menacing looking glare from a certain Poufy Haired Douchenozzle.