The Sparkly Disco Mushroom.

Cropped striped t-shirt with lace back + pocket, Romwe.com. Black sequined beret, Forever 21. Black blazer, Leifsdottir. Black denim shorts, Urban Outfitters. Black knitted over knee socks, Asos.com. Black mc boots, Scorett. Lipstick by Rival de Loop Berlin.

(Photos by me.)

I'm trying not to notice how annoyingly shiny and new these boots are. Leather boots should not be shiny and new! They should be ragged and battered and look like they've been passed down through generations. Well, not much else I can do but wear them, and wear them, and then wear them some more. Especially in bad weather. By this time next year, they should be perfect!

This sequined beret is just the best thing. Look at it! My head is like a sparkly disco mushroom! I wish I could make sparkly disco mushroom soup for lunch. Or fry them up with cream and butter and eat them on toast. Sparkly disco mushroom toast. Mmmm.

You know, I blush with pride whenever I'm asked to translate more of my magazine columns for you, and you can be sure that I most definitely will. The only problem is that when I read through them, a lot of times they're very... Swedish. Full of references to Swedish song lyrics, books, people, places, stores, television shows, you name it. Though, maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing? I can try to work around it when possible, and when I can't, it shouldn't have to be any more weird than reading a translated book or watching a foreign film. I hope.

The one you're just about to read was written back in September of 2009, and it's the first one I wrote after deciding to leave the more opinion-based form and instead focus on telling stories from my life. (Mostly because I was at this time writing bi-weekly columns for a newspaper, as well as one every week in Sofis mode - and to be honest, I didn't feel like I had enough opinions to fill six columns a month with them.) It turned out that I loved writing these personal stories, and I kept doing it once a week for the next two years. Until now. A couple of days ago, I submitted my last column to Sofis mode. As much as I will miss it, it's about time I channel my creativity into finally writing a book. And when there's something I just need to tell someone - I have you guys!

So. It's September of 2009, I'm alone in Berlin, my life is turned upside down for a number of reasons... and, well, I'm going just a little bit crazy.

She has a ring in her nose and weirdly pale eyes and she wants my number.

I type it into her Nokia and press "save". Someone has used duct tape to keep the battery from falling out.

"Thanks", she says, "I'm going to call you later and we will party all night!"

Terrific. You do that.

She skips off towards the subway, but before she lets the giant gap in the ground swallow her whole, she turns around and waves.

I'm not stupid. I'm well aware she won't call me. I'm fine with that. It's not like I'm really planning on going to a techno club with a nineteen-year-old I just met at the hairspray aisle at Rossmann's, anyway. It was nice talking to someone, that's all.

Friday afternoon and I've been alone in Berlin less than 48 hours. Which doesn't say a thing. You see, something has happened to time; it's gotten stuck somewhere, moving in slow motion.

I'm honestly not sure what it is I'm doing here. I guess my plan is to become more independent, sort of. Start appreciating my own company. Prove that I can take care of myself, that I'm just fine without him.

On my way home I swing by Lidl to buy milk and frozen pizza with salami and extra cheese. The couple in front of me in the cashier's line keep throwing glances in my direction. They're talking about me. 

Honey, look, it's so sad! And two cartons of milk, aaw. Like we don't get that one of them is going to get old and sour in the fridge while she eats her cereal at a kitchen table set for one. Who does she think she's fooling?

In reality, they're obviously talking about something completely different. For some reason that doesn't cheer me up one bit.

I'm halfway through the front door when my cellphone starts vibrating in my pocket. My first thought is that she's dialed my number by mistake.

"Aneka, one o' clock at Icon! Coolest party, everbody's going. I see you there, yes?"

Her English is broken but enthusiastic and I can't remember how to say no.

My new lipstick is extremely red, it cost me three euros and coincidentally that's exactly how cheap I look wearing it.

Then, a text. It's from him.

"I'm out having a beer", it says, "I miss you. What are you up to?"

"Going to a club with a nineteen-year-old German girl", I reply. I don't write: Can you tell how hip I am, how much fun I'm having without you? Can you tell how freakin' hard I'm trying here?

I'm pretty sure he already knows.

It's half past midnight and I practice walking in front of the mirror, a black sequin dress and high wedges. Trying on my nineteen-year-old smile. It's a bit rusty. 

A new text: "Aneka, are you on your way?"

...

When I open my eyes, the room is flooded with sunlight.

I eat my cornflakes at the kitchen table. German milk tastes different from Swedish. Sweeter.

Then he texts me.

"How was your night with the German club kids?"

"I stayed home", I write back. I'm not nineteen anymore and honestly I don't miss it, you on the other hand, you I miss so much I feel like I'm going to fall to pieces at any moment. Can't you just please hurry up and get here? Independence is so goddamn lonely.

I don't tell him that.

I'm pretty sure he already knows.