Old Intro For an Oc That Never Came Into Existence

 A dramatic take on life :3

4.4.25 

Warning: It's ass and was made almost two years ago. Another, it's gonna be LONG as fuck.

Seriously, who does a 13-page intro? 

(Me) But don't worry, I'll only put like 1 tenth of this intro because it's so long and some parts are embarassing. Plus, because I have free will. 

The perfect way of starting this introduction is by telling you a fun fact: I was born in the wrong country, technically.

So, I'm (don't have a name yet), yes, my name's a colour in my native language, but it's cool 'cause it's my favourite. Sometimes people call me (insert random color) after finding that out and I hate it. It gets so annoying.

I was born while my parents were on a trip to Russia, in a tiny town (or village even), Великий Устюг (Veliky Ustyug). They were visiting my mom's old friend (who offed herself with a still-working gun she found in her basement two years ago, by the way), My mom was about to pop when she went there. A strange move, right?

Another fact — I'm from five different countries, and that is only counting passports I have. And how about we don't mention my other ancestors’ nationalities.

 I didn’t even know that was possible. My dad's Italian and from Puerto-Rico, mom's Swiss and Luxembourgish (Swiss by ancestry and Luxembourgish after living there for 10 years and passing the language text), and I'm the only one born in Russia because my brother popped out in Switzerland. My life's not just complicated. It's a literal clusterfuck of moving countries, schools, and daddy issues all repeating now and then. Except the daddy issues part, that won't really happen anymore.

So, born in Russia by accident, but did you know I ended up stuck there for about 10 years? Bet you didn't see that coming. Yes, I moved to Великий Устюг at 5 months old, and lived there till I was like 11 because my mom decided so. We didn't get the passport, but I guess you can *almost* consider me Russian at this point. 

And one day my parents said, "okay, now that we have the smallest bit of experience of parenting and used our first child as an experiment and has been neglected, let's have another child." That's how I got a little brother, whose name is Mattia, 9 years old. He's 6 years younger and usually a pain in the ass whenever I see him.

Then one day, dad said 'fuck this' and vanished completely. I haven't seen his face at all since Matt was 2 months old in March of 2012. Either way, I didn't really give a shit though, and never really 'bonded' with him. Plus, I also always froze up when he came home from work. Still don't get why, but it's whatever.

Now, about school. For god’s sake, where do I start? New country, new school, new language every few years, or months when the heavens above decide to torture me. Made friends, lost friends, rinse and repeat. It's like my life's a broken record of 'new kid in town'. Do not get me started on the cultural whiplash. One minute I'm eating borscht made by my 'friend's' mom in Russia, next I'm downing paella in Spain. My identity? A smoothie of cultures.

What about relationships?? Let's just say daddy issues aren't just a phrase for me. Extreme trust issues? Check. Commitment phobia? Double check. But you know what? This mess made me who I am. Adaptable, fluent in almost 6 languages, and with a shit detector that could put the FBI to shame.

I mentioned that we moved around a lot, right? Well, after Russia, it was like my mom decided to play 'pin the tail on the map' to decide where we'd live next. First stop: Luxembourg. Talk about culture shock. One minute I'm in the frozen end of Russia, next I'm in this tiny country where mostly everyone's stupidly rich and speaks a language that sounds like German mostly and French having a stroke.

School there? It wasn’t bad, it was a nightmare. Picture this: I show up, barely speaking, no, understanding the language, looking like I just crawled out of Siberia (which, let's face it, I kinda did), and these most of these kids are decked out in 100% designer clothes, talking about their summer homes in the French Riviera, Miami, Dubai or whatever. Meanwhile, I'm just trying to figure out how to ask where the bathroom is without pissing myself first.

 

After Luxembourg, it was Spain. Ah, Spain. Land of siestas, fiestas, and me trying not to die of heatstroke. My pasty Russian ass was not prepared for that Mediterranean sun. I might be south Italian and Puerto-Rican which is even more in the south, but my genes must’ve gotten messed up. But the food? Holy shit. I'd sell my soul and left kidney for a good churro from the store I lived next to right now.

It was in Spain where I had my first kiss. With a girl. Yeah, surprise! Turns out, when your life's this much of a mess, your sexuality decides to join the party too. It was behind the school during a fiesta. Her name was Maria, she tasted like oranges and rebellion. Of course, it ended in disaster. Her parents found out, freaked the fuck out (Catholic much?), and suddenly, it was time for us to move again. Coincidence? I don't think so at all.

Next up: Switzerland. Back, again, to mom's roots for a few months. You'd think it'd be all chocolate and skiing, right? Wrong. It was more like small, boring towns, going to the nearest city everyday, all while I tried not to lose my mind with how fucking orderly everything was. After the chaos of Spain, Switzerland felt like living in a perfectly organized, extremely boring snow globe. Occasionally we’d go see my grandma two hours away and it was better, but as I said, occasionally. She also lives 5 minutes from the border with Italy, so yay, switching countries for fun whenever!

And let's not forget about Mattia through all this. Poor kid's been dragged around even more than me. By the time he was 5 years old, he'd lived in four countries and was more confused about his identity than a chameleon in a bag of Skittles.

Now, at 15, I'm in Sweden. It’s a very long story, really, but apparently my dad’s great-grandfather’s dad or some was born in Sweden and it wasn’t really passed down, don’t know why (just like how my mom is like 25% Italian but it never got passed down. Except my dad then came to save the day and left). Mom thought it'd be good for us to "connect with our roots", how does that work when there’s only one official Swedish family member? As if I even know what my roots are anymore. I'm like a mentally-ill, human version of the United Nations.

Despite all this chaos, or maybe because of it, I've got skills most people would kill for. I could curse you out fluently in seven or so languages with zero stuttering, adapt to a new culture faster than you can say "culture shock," and I've got a unique perspective on life that comes from being a perpetual outsider.

I dunno how that went, and because some people on the internet are really sensitive (Or I was just being a bitch without noticing), none of the 'hatred' in this part was serious, it was all sarcasm and I didn't mean anything I wrote about that.