If you don't give a damn about King's Day

Every year the same nonsense starts again in mid-April. “Look, what are you doing this year?” “Uh, this year? What? With what?” “King's Day, crazy!!” “Oh that. Uh, I don’t know,” is the standard response. Although I actually do know. In fact: I know it damn well.

Anything but showering. Putting on makeup. Dressing myself in an orange outfit. Squeezing myself onto the train to Amsterdam. And ending up at some hip festival. Or wandering around a flea market in the drizzle. Even worse: sitting on a boat. Selling stuff on a blanket. Never. I have never done it. I will never do it.

Sometimes I wonder what it says about me as a person that I prefer to display myself like a starfish on the couch at the party of the ‘Happy Dutchies’. It’s just, well, a day on which it has been decided for all of us that we celebrate, because the king has a birthday. And maybe that’s where it goes a bit wrong in my head.

No matter how ridiculous it sounds: I have come to realize that I don’t handle it well when it is decided for me when I celebrate and when not. And that I know that six months in advance. I have an authority problem. Compulsively, I resist parties (by the way, also against assignments) that are imposed on me. Just like New Year's Eve. And fuck, maybe that makes me an incredibly sour hate smurf. I am the resistance. Or something.

I do watch – extremely content with myself and the entire situation – from the couch at the Orange spectacle, after which a kind of FOMO situation arises again because damn, everyone seems to be just two glasses of wine away from blood poisoning and the fun just doesn’t stop. Also, that one friend always texts me like crazy asking where I am. Hmm, should I just go out then?

I don’t think so.

Long live the king!

From the couch.

I’ll still eat an orange pastry.

WOOHOO.

Complicated.

Personality disorder.

Error.

Grr.