Camrad_RIP: переводы

→Emma is sitting at the kitchen island, her hair unkempt and, as she glances at me, I see that her eyes are red and tired. She probably stayed up late last night, crying the whole time. Women do that, or so I’ve been lead to believe. Women do a great many things both mysterious and foolish. One such ritual is crying quite often, obsessing over their finger and toenails, as well as their hair in all locations, and many other such examples. I don’t see the point of even a quarter of these things. And as I currently possess the body of a female and not the mind, the fault must lay in their foolish minds or spirits. Emma grows a grin as she sees me, though it is slightly condescending. Bitch.

→Literally and legitimately, Nero’s crazy. It’s not even hard to tell, I think her family just ignores it or is used to it but there’s no way she’s sane. It’s hard to describe. She’s got this… not hoity toity type stuff like in fairytales, she just… acts like everything is beneath her, but does it anyway. The arrogance is incredible, her smugness is infuriating. She acts like she knows more than I do, if not everything, on every single subject. But, and here’s the important part… she then pulls some bullshit out of thin air that makes perfect sense. She says things that she can’t possibly know, but she says them with certainty and confidence.

→I’ve always been perceptive, Dad tells me so. Nero is crazy. And brilliant.

→Truth be told, even if she’s Emma’s sister, she is still a good friend. She’s supportive, she listens, she makes sense. She argues about everything, she’s so damn argumentative, but always backs up her ‘logic’. She’s the worst kind of person, but she’s on my side. I can’t really wrap my head around her. I’ve only really known her for about a week, she had always just been ‘Emma’s sister’ and I never saw much of her when I would have slumber parties with Emma, but she seems nice. Seems being the operative word.

→Nero, despite the young hour, still looks as perfect as ever. Make-up just so, hair properly brushed, not even a single wrinkle in her clothes, her smile as lively as ever. But the real detail is in her face, beneath the make up. Her eyes, mostly. Sunken, dark, bloodshot, tired eyes… I’ve always had a good eye for reading people, but I don’t know what life experience she’s gone through to be that way. It’s not the early hour, she always looks like that. She looks like a damn wolf, glaring at the world with hungry eyes. She looks like hell itself spit her back out, because it couldn’t handle the sheer bitterness of holding her. But she laughs and sings, and can be a good person.

→Damnit, now I’m thinking like her.

→Unfortunately, I am distracted from my attempts at shutting my overly loud sister right the fuck up by a sudden sizzling coming from my mother’s direction. Damn! I was distracted from my mother by my sister’s antics! Are they working together? Is this her first attempt at killing me, or is she merely an accomplice to my mother’s female cunning? So many questions, and only one answer: I do not know. Much as it pains me, I must now abstain from the pancakes she will place before me, lest I be poisoned once more. I shall instead switch the ones that are placed in front of me with her own. Treasonous harlot wants to betray me? She will most certainly be poisoned in return. Resolving to not be distracted again, I ignore my sister and stare at my mother. I will not be forced to fast from the bacon as well! Stealing pancakes is easy, but Mother usually has an eagle’s eye about her bacon.

→There’s some form of muffin in a dish to be publically served, one of the few forms of food distribution I trust, I pick one up and throw it at her. Clearly, her reflexes are incredibly poor as I solidly bean her straight in the face, definitely not thinking abilities for she would’ve noticed the muffin rocketing at her face as though projected from a scorpion. Alas, the makeshift projectile does not serve it’s purpose, only widening my sister’s already infuriating smile. It does leave a marked chocolate stain on her forehead, which I do not feel the need to tell her about. Let that be my ever-so small revenge for this insolence.

→Fortunately for Emma, there’s no sense killing her just yet. She has taken credit for cleaning up after my august self’s drunkenness: a job fit for a menial but important nonetheless. I have sworn to murder the little wolf character - and now that I think about it; Emma does have some aspects commonly associated with being a wolf: blindly following a pack leader, being less than my august self - but I must restrain myself, partially, and punish her in some other manner.

→Hold on a moment… She seems to be mildly aware of my hungover status. Which leads some credence to the theory that she is, in fact, the little wolf character I’ve been plotting about murdering. Speaking too loudly, the stupid tone… I had thought that this was a normal everyday occurrence, but no… she seems to have been made aware somehow. Either she has triggered into cape-hood and become one of the thinking variety, which is extremely unlikely as most such abilities are rather obvious and Emma is being practically Roman in her subtlety were that the case, or she stumbled upon my drunken self on accident while seeking to mate with the Nubian.

→“Not feeling too good?” Emma continues to dig her grave deeper and deeper it seems. Perhaps drowning is too good for her? A problem for another time. I must first eliminate this feeling of superiority she seems to have spontaneously formed between our return from school last night and this morning. Everything after approximately… eleven becomes a blur… Something likely happened between then and now, but whatever foolishness possesses her shall shortly be brought to heel. But what might have happened? Hmm… likely she sneaked her way out of the house and consummated her relationship with her tribal lover. That seems most likely.

→“Nero,” she greets with an all-knowing, all too loud tone, as though she somehow knew about my sensitive auditory senses.

→I arrive just in time, thankfully. Mother had just been retrieving the eggs from their strange container in the refrigerator as I entered the kitchen. Another potential assassination attempt averted by the good goddess Fortuna, I’ll have to sacrifice a goat at some point. There aren’t any holidays set aside for such things, so I’m sure that Fortuna wouldn’t turn up her nose at my sacrifice, Imperial as it would be.

→Now, fully prepared to meet the coming day, I rush downstairs to the ‘kitchen’, praying that I have beaten my mother in waking and that my headache would commit suicide with honor. I must be ever vigilant against assassination attempts and, thus, always make sure to watch my food be prepared. I have even, disgraceful as it might seem, occasionally prepared food for myself, though such events are rare, thankfully. The very idea of preparing my own food is concerning to me. Naturally, my skill in the preparation of food is considerable, indeed, but to actually perform the tasks is terribly plebeian.

→Quite motivated by the very idea of food, I make my way to the “restroom” to begin my daily preparations. The first step is to bathe, as every Roman does. An Imperator, while inherently superior, is still quite similar to the plebs in some matters. Bathing is only the most prominent of these similarities. The second step, of course, is to admire my august self. Should I find any faults in my glorious body, I then take steps to remove them. For example, I make sure to check my finger and toenails are properly trimmed and polished, my hair in all locations is without tangle and well groomed, and that my skin is without blemish. However, such occurrences are few and far between, and at best minor. Thirdly, I leave, as I am done. Any other possible occurrence that may come about is covered in the second part of step two, after all.

→Ah, but a mixture of bacon, butter, pancakes, and juiced oranges always seems to cure my hangovers. Perhaps this ‘breakfast’ had originally been crafted to alleviate the signs of the Christians’ heavy drinking at their worship festivals? I do not know, I am neither Christian nor a heavy drinker, but it seems likely.

→My search for this ‘little wolf’ character will have to be put off until at least after breakfast, however. These Roman successors have declared it the “most important meal of the day” and I cannot find it in myself to fault them in this, with a full belly in the morning a person will have vast reserves of energy for performing more strenuous tasks. Additionally, I find the usual fare of the breakfast meal to be unusually filling and nutritious. Though, I must confess a favorite: the pig’s belly they refer to as ‘bacon’ is quite delicious when ‘fried’ in its own juices. I suppose that this is one area in which these ‘Christians’ trump their Jewish roots, the people of Judea have long since sworn off the animal entirely.

→“How’re my favorite three ladies this morning?”

→HOW I LEARNED TO STOP HATING AND LOVE MINIONS

→She pulls up my ‘computer desk’ chair and sits at my bedside, near me, she stares a bit before asking, “Why do you drink all the time?” she appears concerned, how thoughtful of her.