extinction.
(Monday, November 19, 2007)
well, it's been quite a while since i went out drinking like a fish on a weekend. almost too long.
reason behind that was i actually had too much to drink already as it is, it doesn't justify the weekend toxicity anymore. and also the disconcerting hangovers i've been getting recently for barely touching the alcohol. oh yeah, i've been contemplating going to church as well.
that being said, rachel went home, mom and dad and my brother his wife and their kid amazingly had to go for a wedding in the brute land in the east coast of Malaysia. watching
saving private ryan of course was initially the best laid plan to spend a nice quiet weekend but i got bored after 20 minutes at home watching some trash celebrity channel.
so i denied myself the faux representation of a quiet weekend i told myself by watching muthafucking steven spielberg's boys getting shot by nazis while chewing an atrocious amount of juicy fried chicken could be better, though highly rated in violence and entertainment value, but morose as i am, it is pretty low on the substantial side on how a good weekend if defined.
since zoe is going for a long term commitment, she's on the lame list, so it's perfectly alright not to call her until she get some sense into her head, therefore i made dinner arrangements with nicole. more accurately, i exploited her bona fide to have dinner with me even when she was out with her friends. after the course of dinner, i lead myself to believe i need a drink before i head back enthusiastically and endure war porn for a couple of hours.
(suprisingly!) one drink lead to a train tequila shots and vodka cocktail. i blame it solely on the euphoric music. and the sexy beyonce dancer wannabe (no music no dance, ya?). for the quarter century i lived thought i've seen everything but seeing someone dances so explicitly is more entertaining than solitary midnight sight of ugly dirty soldiers on dvd at home.
kiera (if you saw her dance, you'll give her a name too!) is doing what our friendly african american call as shaking her bootie, an elaborated innocuous rhythmic synchronization of motion with the music. she basically marveled the floor with the chorus of bending and bold moves. the moment was short lived by an exchange of DJ who spins
a technically rich but sounds like fuck chain of r&b tunes from my grandfather's time. shortly after, even the faithful kiera retired from the floor, if not driven away by the inconsistency of the mixes.
all of a sudden, the fun was gone and the memories of bad parties crept in motionlessly yet eloquently drain the good times away. choice was obvious, leave the place before whatever part of stale fun was robbed as well. for a split second, i had an epiphany to throw the DJ into a casket with along with irrelevant tunes of yesteryear that stung our ear drums and slow set it on fire so he will roast to death. what is that if not an appropriate menace for an infidel.
