I know what you did last weekend. Told in two, maybe three parts. Better than the movies, not as funny as others. A self deprecatory tale of excess

This is simple. It’s either something I want to remember or something I want to forget. In a few ways this weekend was oddly liberating. To dwell into the untold would be revealing secrets. Would it be not?

Thursday was not all the way through. I had left home, dreading, not considering what lay ahead. I almost turned back, to step into a something unknown, not very friendly, nervous and anxious. I wandered along the harbour, staring at the trains. It’s amazing how irony just jumps out when you least expect it. When you entertain confusion over ambitions or mentally debate a path of the right or wrong in life. It leaps out, knocks you in the head. Peals of laughter or cries of anguish, it is what a professor of mine would call, in her very nasal twang- “ It is an either or situation, no and. It is that easy.”
“No it is not,” I always wished I could say. But I was either trying to ward off sleep or staring at this particular girl’s pretty neck, and visualized- my hand on the slopes of her shoulders. Gently turning her towards me, eyes moist, looking at me enquiringly accompanied by that lingering flashy smile, the lips so inviting…

Snapping out.

King’s circle.
Visions of a decorated, sworn-to-be-protected-by-generations-of-strong-muscular-guards, diamond encrusted sphere made of a mysterious metal, in the depths of which lie the secret of human life, the mission and how to avoid throwing up even after drinking 10 bloody Mary’s and not making a complete ass of yourself in public by peeing in what you think is an isolated corner of the railway station. King’s circle, however contained almost no visions of grandeur, finding grandeur would be as difficult as talking to a socialist in a fiercely capitalist organizations, let us say a magazine with international repute. Hypothetically.
The train hooted on a bridge, looking down at King’s Circle.
A few scattered stalls, selling fish, spices, vegetables and a very well concealed stall, covered by white sheets on almost all sides. The stall had a dealer and what I suspected also the house, he dealt cards and a lonely roulette wheel.
White and Black spinning in its devilish recesses was a dark red ball.
Three men stood opposite the wheel, nursing a glass full of what I would assume a local brew. I suspect some Ether would be an integral part of the process. A burly man stood guard.

The location of the tent was either brand new or the dealer/house was not too bright. The guard warded off all the vagabonds in the markets, but no one considered looking up to analyze. Not the heavens, there was some one else watching and not the flying angles of Zeus, with wings so strong that they melt in the heat. Wrong story? Different conversation?

The train stopped right above this very portable Casino. King’s Circle’s very own Las Vegas. Sin and pleasure took a front seat. Morals and intelligence obviously were too drunk on the back seat.
They spun the wheel, I screamed 13! The men looked up and scrambled to run, but the train left as well.
I tumbled to my destination. A luxurious inn, still recovering from the scars of yesterday.

Often before I reach to what I have to say, is when I run out of breath or lose touch something which also happened this particular day, while I tried to balance myself on a chair after a few too many bloody marys and wines. I even tried to have this conversation with a reasonably attractive woman. I do not remember why I said what I said or even what I said. I remember making the poor female uncomfortable talking to completely drunk man. The evening ended with me trying to charge my phone with my laptop’s battery, not before telling a friend about a certain act of lust I had indulged in a few months ago.

Drunken dialing should be outlawed.