According to Dylan Thomas, a writer who writes his books on, rather than between, whisky is a lousy writer, and he is probably American. I don't write either on or between whisky; I start writing before opening any bottle, and what I drink, is not whisky but a particular type of beer that is local to my city - very plain beer but alcoholic nonetheless. It perhaps does clarify that I am not an American and assure that I am not lousy. After all, he who drinks and gets drunk and spews on his own at the corner is not lousy; it is, at best, unfortunate, and at worst, miserable. But ultimately, it does not matter either way.
Originally I aimed for barbecue with beer. Yet sitting at the table were at least two people, and at one particular table there were six of them, only on the steps sat those who are single. Since I am only one person, and I do not want to sit on the steps, I choose beer only - three bottles of them, not more lest I confide something against my wish, and not fewer so they do intoxicate. Carrying these bottles is a task unto itself, and the weight on my left hand seems to convince me that I am already drunk - I naturally feel a tad dizzy and walk more strenuously. "Look, there is a cat hiding beneath the car, now what you coward! But ugh, if I want to kill it, I will kill it. The problem is, would I?" Inebriation makes everything philosophical, so I repeat inward, would I, and laugh and walk back upstairs; this time with three beer bottles.
My ghastly demeanor unsettled my mom. She came in once to offer me a cup of lemon tea with honey, and she just knocked again with a bottle opener, asking if I'd want to have some toasted cauliflowers - no, of course, for she can in no way comfort me and I do not even want to be comforted. I keep typing, occasionally gazing around for thoughts on how to continue, and keep typing. To the least, I mutter thusly, I still have the composure to bring back beers, and to drink them while typing, rather than to shout "it is all ruined and I'm ruined" and collapse into total despair. Huh? It's a good thing.
And ahoy mate, it feels great. No resentment, no bittersweet, no regret, nothing. As I slide slowly back from the bathroom with a freshly emptied bladder, I saw my mom crouching on the floor in her bedroom, watching TV - she ain't remembering a thing from that damned screen I bet, and she just keeps watching because somehow it relives her. Oh this shitty place that smells like how gazillions of those so-called ordinary have lived and died, I flounder with my hands waving mid-air, laughably useless as I try. "Man, you have lost all of your dignity and respect, who are you but a cynic, a loser and a freak? Your aspiration is destined for doom and your pretense is seen right through. Get lost and go eff yourself, lad!" Sure, sure, I answer intuitively, and I do nothing because for some reason I think I'd still linger around.
After several cups of water, miraculously I found myself sober. I turn off the green fan to the back of which I used to pour peppermint to make the room smell better; it is facing me at a direct angle, looking at me with its stern front - one year ago the cover went loose and I fixed it. The air conditioner whose age is larger than mine, is still functioning in the background. Its remote is now placed under my Beats by Dr. Dre headphones, shiny like new because my mom has always taken great care of it. The room temperature is set at 27°C. I feel cozy and warm. I am reminded not of those hours I spent waiting for a girl in vain; I am reminded of how many more months of solitude and struggle with which that tragic romance can happen, for myself. In the end, it is about me; it is about my own naivety; it is about my own past.
Thanks though; if the God in my dictionary has taught me anything, it is always to be thankful. Therefore, thanks.
