Ever had a chocolate éclair with an onion? Well I did last week. In the form of an ex-girl friends’ (whom I shall refer to as Tash from this point on) wedding. A chocolate éclair because she’s such a sweet person and I was happy to hear that she was getting married (me not knowing the guy helped too). An onion coz everybody I knew, who was going to be there at the wedding, knew “us” and I never made it as part of the gang after we broke up. I knew this was the kind of social situation that would make me want to eat bed sheets but then I never learn.
So come Tuesday night I don my purple slim cut shirt I got from Hameedias after pawning my balls. Tie? No tie? Ma decides tie. Crutches? No crutches? God decides crutches. Call 688 or 588 or 666 or 999 or something like that. Half an hour later a Toyota Corolla parks itself in front of my gate. I have a very intellectually stimulating conversation with the cab driver on how G-force works on my way to the Inter Con.
I take a deep breath and get down in front of a glass door with a sign that says “push”. Now I’m trying to make up my mind whether I would prefer giving up my N70 or my Doctor Martin shoes for a half a bottle of “gal” so it would keep the friends and the awkward conversations at bay.
These days if there is one thing that I hate more than the “murunga” curry the maid makes at home, it’s “push” and “pull” signs. For me to push or pull doors with the crutches, I need to have either a third arm or a penis that one could hang a wet towel on, when not erect. And I have neither, so some god damn bellhop better be at the door by the time I hobble my way over there.
“Oh my god C, what happened to you?” I freeze. It’s like I just had Mr. Freezes’ icicle gun shoved up my arse and turned on. Everything in between my rectum and eye balls felt submerged in liquid Nitrogen. One flick and I would have come crashing down in a crystal blitz. Bling Bling. Oh, look it’s Hash, the bible quoting sniper form Saving Private Ryan. She will aim for your gut and then read the bible while you bleed to death. If you are really nice to her, she will pull your intestines out for you so you make your trip faster. Don’t forget to thank her for the bullet. “Hey Hashi, it’s been a long time. Yeah men, shit happens but it’s sooooo nice to see you after all this while” (Did I introduce myself? Hi, I’m the fucked up nice guy). Anyway I share my accident story for the googleth time with her. The “chick version” of the incident works like a charm. Especially on dumb chicks. She decides to walk with me to the reception. Though most people I related this story to, thinks it had nothing to do with my charm, I think otherwise. On the other hand Hash, knowing her, would have relished the attention she got when she walked in with a guy with crutches.
A cute girl asks me my name at the entrance. I tell her. She asks whether it’s Mr. & Mrs. I tell her “oh yes, but Shit, I forgot the Mrs. at home”. She gives me a smile that I know is wondering why she gets to handle all the freaks. I’m on table number twelve. Hash and I are at the same table. Somebody upstairs really loves me. I would have been happy being stuck at a table with an aunt who thinks I was “just right” for her three times divorced, thirty nine year old niece. No such luck.
I hobble my way to the furthest table from the entrance. Now I’m beginning to think that this is one gigantic conspiracy of Tashs’ to teach me a lesson for breaking up with her. Chicks have memories of elephants and guys that of gold fish.
Reach table number twelve and lo and behold! all the gangs there. Visa, her bad breath and all. Tashs’ I-can’t-remember-her-name friend, who thought I was cute. Tash always thought she was blind. Ruvi, who I always had the hots for. I will always remember her as she helped me complete my transition journey from a breast man to an arse man. Then there were people I’ve met before but can’t remember. Seems almost like in a different lifetime. Time seems to go by so fast.
Then I saw her. My Tash. I’m sorry, Tash. All of a sudden memories came back like lightening crashes. I felt so nostalgic it made me sick. The conversations, the fights, her lips, those eyes and that smile. Suddenly I was happy. I knew that smile. That smile still tells me a thousand stories. One which says that today is the happiest day of her life. I’m happy just to be here to share her happiness.
After a good trip I get back to my seat to find I’m sandwiched between a half drunk Hash and a bird who smells of cheap perfume. I decide to drink and flirt with Hash. A drunken sniper is better than cheap perfume any day. For all you know I might get lucky……..she might decide to shoot me in the head.
So come Tuesday night I don my purple slim cut shirt I got from Hameedias after pawning my balls. Tie? No tie? Ma decides tie. Crutches? No crutches? God decides crutches. Call 688 or 588 or 666 or 999 or something like that. Half an hour later a Toyota Corolla parks itself in front of my gate. I have a very intellectually stimulating conversation with the cab driver on how G-force works on my way to the Inter Con.
I take a deep breath and get down in front of a glass door with a sign that says “push”. Now I’m trying to make up my mind whether I would prefer giving up my N70 or my Doctor Martin shoes for a half a bottle of “gal” so it would keep the friends and the awkward conversations at bay.
These days if there is one thing that I hate more than the “murunga” curry the maid makes at home, it’s “push” and “pull” signs. For me to push or pull doors with the crutches, I need to have either a third arm or a penis that one could hang a wet towel on, when not erect. And I have neither, so some god damn bellhop better be at the door by the time I hobble my way over there.
“Oh my god C, what happened to you?” I freeze. It’s like I just had Mr. Freezes’ icicle gun shoved up my arse and turned on. Everything in between my rectum and eye balls felt submerged in liquid Nitrogen. One flick and I would have come crashing down in a crystal blitz. Bling Bling. Oh, look it’s Hash, the bible quoting sniper form Saving Private Ryan. She will aim for your gut and then read the bible while you bleed to death. If you are really nice to her, she will pull your intestines out for you so you make your trip faster. Don’t forget to thank her for the bullet. “Hey Hashi, it’s been a long time. Yeah men, shit happens but it’s sooooo nice to see you after all this while” (Did I introduce myself? Hi, I’m the fucked up nice guy). Anyway I share my accident story for the googleth time with her. The “chick version” of the incident works like a charm. Especially on dumb chicks. She decides to walk with me to the reception. Though most people I related this story to, thinks it had nothing to do with my charm, I think otherwise. On the other hand Hash, knowing her, would have relished the attention she got when she walked in with a guy with crutches.
A cute girl asks me my name at the entrance. I tell her. She asks whether it’s Mr. & Mrs. I tell her “oh yes, but Shit, I forgot the Mrs. at home”. She gives me a smile that I know is wondering why she gets to handle all the freaks. I’m on table number twelve. Hash and I are at the same table. Somebody upstairs really loves me. I would have been happy being stuck at a table with an aunt who thinks I was “just right” for her three times divorced, thirty nine year old niece. No such luck.
I hobble my way to the furthest table from the entrance. Now I’m beginning to think that this is one gigantic conspiracy of Tashs’ to teach me a lesson for breaking up with her. Chicks have memories of elephants and guys that of gold fish.
Reach table number twelve and lo and behold! all the gangs there. Visa, her bad breath and all. Tashs’ I-can’t-remember-her-name friend, who thought I was cute. Tash always thought she was blind. Ruvi, who I always had the hots for. I will always remember her as she helped me complete my transition journey from a breast man to an arse man. Then there were people I’ve met before but can’t remember. Seems almost like in a different lifetime. Time seems to go by so fast.
Then I saw her. My Tash. I’m sorry, Tash. All of a sudden memories came back like lightening crashes. I felt so nostalgic it made me sick. The conversations, the fights, her lips, those eyes and that smile. Suddenly I was happy. I knew that smile. That smile still tells me a thousand stories. One which says that today is the happiest day of her life. I’m happy just to be here to share her happiness.
After a good trip I get back to my seat to find I’m sandwiched between a half drunk Hash and a bird who smells of cheap perfume. I decide to drink and flirt with Hash. A drunken sniper is better than cheap perfume any day. For all you know I might get lucky……..she might decide to shoot me in the head.
8 comments:
"chocolate éclairs and onions"
that is one awesome metaphor and it was applicable from beginning to end...you, Good Sir, has a way with words..
and for the record, just as i was about to post the comment, i suddenly figured out whose wedding this was, my parents went for it.. =)
good on u for going to the wedding of your ex ! did u think the groom was a nice guy too? :)
just to let u know that the above comment wasnt made by me.. :s
good lord! is this the wedding i was bride's maid at? i do think it's too much of a coincidence otherwise...
I enjoyed reading that. I think you should write about those real life experiences more often. You definitelty have a good writng style.
Dude,
feeling sorry for one self is fine and it does happen but what is more important is to realise that there are tons of people who need you really badly.
I am one of those do gooders who are keen to see that the poor students who live beyond Colombo can learn a bit of english and maths so they can become employed and have life.
We need plenty of poeple like you to help us in our quest.
These children have parents who can only manage to give them their three meals, they go to schools that have no teachers, they have eyes that fill up with tears when you teach them a new word !!!!!!!
They worship you just for teaching them for an afternoon. They really do need all the education they can get in order to ensure that they have a future. Most want to "get a job" or "build their house so that they do not get wet when it rains". If they are ever to earn their living by working in an honest occupation [ apart from illicit liquor and drug trafficking] we need plenty of poeple to help them NOT FINANCIALLY but by assisting them in their education.
This is the first day that I visited your blog and I read almost all the posts since the "day you got copped in Colombo".
You have the potential dude and a way with words that is both inspiring and truly amusing. You are the type of person that can reach out without effort.
I teach 20 students on every week in a village away from Colombo and I bet you can start something similar too. I get paid Rs.zero for my efforts but I know that I am doing something to change these kids lives.
Look at the slums in Colombo 6. Look at the small schools hidden in the city . Visit a village 20 kms away from Colombo . Speak to a Principle in one of those schools. Start something so that you can contribute to the future of this country, first hand. Discussion and expression of ideas is a good thing but that is hardley going to help the majority of the poeple who live in this country and who really need the help of someone eloquent as you.
Get your sorry ass out of the house and out of Colombo dude, there are millions who would trade places with you with a blink of an eye[WITH the broken leg and all]!!!! You've got all the choices in the world dude , help other poeple have atleast one choice in their lives. They can either work in some small office and earn a decent living or they can end up in a large cell with plenty of bars. Give them a chance to be able to choose their life.
Long post dude. Apologies for ranting !!! But you are one of the very few bloggers who actually have a personality which is not limited to words.
You are possibly the horniest blogger in SL - what with all those references to arse, balls and breasts, a fellow testosteronite (woohoo I coined a word) can't help but empathize with such experiences.
Plus you write very well.
Keep up the good work.
No theena, YOU are the horniest blogger and person in Sri Lanka...why do I have to remind you of this fact all of the time?
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