Here I am writing part 2. It feels emotionally rich and so versatile to have a story to tell that takes more than one part to express. I feel a little like George Lucas, honest. But unfortunately this story does not take place in a galaxy far far away, though there were times where I did talk like Yoda.
Stumbling home on Thursday, the next morning did not promise rays of sunlight and exuberance. Trundling in was a hangover. The hangover was what I compared to as a pesky urchin, constantly craving attention and little change action. While I smoked my fifth cigarette I decided, this celebration will be highly subdued. I could feel the distinct flavour of screwdrivers creeping into my throat. The clock starts six hours and twenty minutes till my next drink.
Oh sweet mother of god, there is the attractive girl from last night, lower the cap, she must not see. A man is not hungover! She looks hungover.
Does this very chauvinist world allow for women to be hungover? The entire concept of chauvinism emerged—and I believe—from a few who respected the women and stormed forward to protect them from all those who wished harm. Animals, maybe another tribe salivating at the robust waist line. Yes, robust.
After a war of words, grunts and clubs, the man walks back, his jaws set almost in stone, soaking in sweat at the peak of his masculinity, showing off his rippling muscles to the other women, hormone raging amongst other things. He decides to look around, who amongst them challenge him?
The women ran forward, in excitement, “my hero” did they scream? One very carefully lifted the leaf. She chose him.
Women empowerment!
Thus followed the agenda of protection and rewards. Somewhere along the way, the rewards were taken for granted. The barter was lost. Alcohol was introduced! Fighting was reduced to slurred words and shaky feet. The strong jaws faded into loose hanging jowls, the stone hard abs were replaced by a pot bellied. Flatus rotund stomachs. The men were lost, who is to blame? Alcohol!
Oh sweet alcohol I mean no harm to you, after all bottled orange juice was meant for Vodka. Did some one not say that?
While heading to the scene of where an important event unfolded, I was driven in a soon to be a socialist country’s prime enterprise. The conversation veered from public policy to price of petrol. A lot of small talk—hot air. (Flatus again!)
People very adamantly spoke about various aspects of life before I was very rudely shoved in. Insider information. Lowest attrition rate was the tall claim. In this process that has lasted over a year and was dangerously topped with uncertainty, the claim would be impressive if true. But the worst information that could ever be gotten of was the very painfully obvious christening of a brand which was to be piped in no other way but one. Oh stop it. Now, you rub it in.
Amongst probably the longest thank you speech, very politically correct and five screwdrivers some one joined me on the chair next to mine. I have since maintained a board- stay away. And it has certainly worked. But not on this one. She reminded me of a past which had to be forgotten in a hurry. Looking around, my companion from last night was resembling in her polka dotted shirt of some one I left far behind. Too much booze, I told myself. Leave. Let the women bicker. Let the men drink. Let the others smoke. Smoke?
Temptation and I yielded.
Adam and Eve when stood in the Garden of Eden, debating the delicious fruit, the tree was called the tree of knowledge and evil. Would you allow evil to walk in if there was knowledge? What defines knowledge? If there was knowledge of a life of hardship and victories, does it not mean the choice was consensual? The apple was never ground and mixed in their drink. No one distracts, no one can ever evangelize either. Screw you spiritual healing!
The windows of the trains seemed to be turning smaller. How did I get in the train? Did I have a ticket? Yes. The letters danced, the music spoke about blue grass.
What was that again? Was I talking to the phone or on the phone? I heard a familiar voice. I was confused. Did I hear the sea? Rushing sound of the waves on the rocks. The spray, the foam, who was I talking to now? The stations floated in and out. I like fast trains. There were those eerie visions of the past. Why do those faces still haunt me?
Is it really her? Should I call out? What is the etiquette? You still alive? She is on a boat standing upside down. Ha ha, the fool.
Oh these torrential tears. Years since we met. Nice to see you,finally.
Drive me home.
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