Of Drugs and Cookies and Shallow Conversations

Pacing in the hallway, part thirsty and part zombie like, listening to some dopey numbers, and eating muggy crisps; that I otherwise wouldn’t; I realized, I was angry.  And constipated. If I had a functional mind, there was something on it.

The scalp itched when I thought and I thought a lot. Some thoughts, had no tops or  bottoms, they were just nothing or if they were something, I couldn’t make sense of them, like pieces of multi colored eight by eight rubix cube puzzles, mocking my acuity to put them together and draw valid conclusions out of them.litlatte._cookies

I looked at my hand. My fingers had painful and reeking cracks and my nails … my nails, were black and lifeless and long, like a fake Halloween witch art. There was no electricity. The bills were unpaid and my utensils and the hall mirror and the window pane and the whole house was a fucking shithole.

“Jeez!” Those ladies with less of head and more of flab, often said, “Don’t you clean your house? There is dirt everywhere. Even on the apples.”

Well … No! I don’t … I am not meant for cleaning and cooking and knitting woollen sweaters in winters. Bitch!

I took a bite of the apple. The dirtiest one. A massive bite. Just to prove a point. It tasted good. I liked it that way. My digestive tract was unbeatable and I could swallow dirt and pesticides and germs and cockroach poop. So yeah, ladies, mind your own business and back off.

I had heard someone once say, “There is no such thing, as a woman with good looks, who cooks and cleans”.

Well, what about men? Do even the ugliest of them cook and clean? I don’t know. I for one, have never been ugly, and given the ridiculously hypothetical circumstance that I ever turned in to one, I would rather hire one of those other ugly suburban guys, who pronounce, “fish” as “fees” and live under the rock of unified social sham that shits (instead of cushioning) all over their collective stupidity, or in other words, their innocence, to do my dirty laundry.

Anyway, don’t they hear themselves say that? Don’t their ears bleed and forehead shrink when such words come out of their faces? And I refuse to accept the possibility of being ugly AND broke at the same time ever, to hoover someone else’s futon. Mostly because it is scary and also because I am a coward to a certain degree.

The false cheers and doltish bantering of acquaintances and co-workers and other deadbeat humans – who breathe and shit and clog the sewage, just because they are born in this world and there are no societal or legal interventions to stop them from doing it – from some time ago, echoed in my ears.

“Oh! Have you gone to Goa?”

“Dude! You should go to G-O-Aaaaaaa. It’s aweeeesommmeee.”

“We did parasailing and we did banana ride and we rented a scooter and we bought haram pants. It was amah-zing! … and oh my god!”

“Do you know? Do you know? Do you know? We partied till four in the morning and did not have hangover the next day. It was like, we wanted to do this forever. And the waves, the waves were so high we wanted to take a dive in it and swim.”

Well you are amazing! Now go fuck a fairy. No … go, fuck a banana … no wait … go ride one. And swim in shallow water and get chomped by sharks and sea monsters. If they have those in Goa.

I am done with shallow conversations, conversations of shallow water and Goa and women who are happy for no reason.

I paced around faster now; a good goddamn cardio.  The sweat sweat my brows and I realized, I could have a cookie. Or sometimes as I like to say, I can has a cookie, just to piss some of the grammar Nazis off.

“Which school did you go to? Did you miss your grammar classes?”

“Yes. I did miss my grammar classes. Just the way you missed your, “don’t wear trainers with formal pants, tuitions”.”

So, I went and grabbed a chair and sat there reflecting on my thoughts and the voices that were inside my head, started taking over. There were not just one, but many of them. If two is a company, three is a sandwich, then this was definitely a crowd. A crowd, that lived inside my head.


“Yes. YOU. The one who is listening and the one who is angry; calm the fuck down. Don’t burn your fat and keratin over the nonsensical futilities.”

“You are the master of your own reality and … and bowel. Settle in there nicely, then firmly grab the arms of the chair and relax.  And let go, of your ego and farts. Consider the cushions of the chair as pressure balls or pair of tits. Whatever floats your boat. Take a deep breath. Inhale and exhale. Feels better.  Doesn’t it?”

“Those co-workers, those ladies and those guys too, shouldn’t throw you off. You are a grown up man.”

“Well yes … some of them do qualify as bitches, even the guys; because you know … they have cocky attitude, flawless dog hair and eight nipples. That’s fine … that’s just fine. Let them be. It’s not under your control.”

“Take my advice:

Stay calm.

They act, you don’t react.

They say things, you pretend you don’t hear them.

They provoke you, you don’t get provoked.

They bitch behind your back, you don’t pay heed.”

“They make fun of your favorite shirt, tell them, their hair cut reminds you of a withered coconut and needs a shaving. That’s totally acceptable. Because no one should make fun of your favorite shirt dude. I’d give you that much.”

“Are you still angry? Can you still has a cookie? Well go for it. Let me remind you, that I am a part of you and not another grown up man offering you a cookie. So, don’t hesitate. It’s alright! No homo. I have kept it on the shelf for you.”

“And you know why you were angry? Because you were hungry. So you were not angry and constipated to begin with, but you were hungry and constipated. Which is ridiculous. If you were constipated you shouldn’t be hungry.”

“But take my advice. Will you? Do less drugs.”

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