The Three Bs Ritual pre-Purgatory days

2004-12-05T19:37:00.000-08:00

Bar

It’s an alcohol-fueled, ecstasy-induced euphoria in
Purgatory. The blinding light, the blaring sound, the
air is breathing hedonism. Drown your sorrow in shots
Jack Daniels on the rocks – wait, make it a double.

From the darkness a figure approaches. Nothing
special, just a regular guy, the type who might sell
you a Hyundai on weekdays, standing grinning stupidly
in a car exhibition, carrying stacks of useless
brochures. Tonight, though, he’s someone.

I like your nose, comes the opening line. Or it
could’ve been something else but just as cheesy and
lame. Yeah whatever. I just want to kiss you in the
mouth. Do I need a reason for that?

When you’re drunk, you act on instinct. Everything is
primal. You degrade yourself to the level of monkeys,
or dogs, or whichever is the lower. You see a person
as a conquest. Can I score tonight?

Is it possible that we are always empty that we need
to be constantly filled? Whenever we are almost full,
we would punch a hole somewhere so it will spill out,
and we need to be refilled. Just like my glass over at
the bar. Could you buy me more drinks please? I’ll be
sweet to you later.

And it is hard to fill an empty soul. Everything
evaporates. Just like this human being beside me
tonight. He would fill me for probably about ten
minutes the longest then he would withdraw, leaving a
hole even bigger, even deeper.

Some pray, some pay shrinks, some worship fortune
teller, some read classics, some devour trashy
magazines, some watch episode after episode of Star
Trek, some surf the bloody net, some scan stinky bars,
just to find meaning. To find the ultimate answer of
the ever-annoying question: why are we here?

And the answer is: who cares? The night is young, the
drink is strong and this Hyundai guy beside me seems
like he’s up to no good. My kind of guy exactly.

Bed

Rings of smoke, puffing cigarette post-coital. So
sophisticated, so Hollywood. Too bad he’s unbelievably
ugly with the lights on. But he was good, really good.
That’s the good thing about ugly guys, they try
harder.

Was it good enough for you? You bet it was. Where did
you learn your moves? You were amazing. But oh please
stop grinning, it’s just gross to see you’re so full
of yourself! While you certainly rocked my world,
you’re not easy on the eyes!

Where are you going? To the shower, where else? You
must be mad if you think I want to lie here smelling
your scent all night.

Cold water cut through my skin. Shitty rented room
with no hot shower. I wonder how much this guy makes
in a month. I must’ve been really wasted to end up
with him. But he was good. I must give him some
credits.

Okay, where’s my car key? Stop! Where are you going?
Out, of course. I thought you might want to stay a bit
longer. To do what? I don’t know, chat? Are we best
friends now? Do we talk about life now? I don’t even
know your name. I told you my name. Well I forgot, ok,
it doesn’t matter. I’m out of here, thanks it was
great, good bye.

Fucking bitch!

Fucking typical. If he’s the one who casually walks
out after sex he’s just being a guy. Sow the seed and
leave.

Now, you couldn’t forget me no matter how hard you
try, could you? You can’t refer to me as this night’s
conquest, you cannot brag to your stupid buddies. You
were my conquest. I was the one fucking you. Wham bam
thank you macho man!

Breakfast

A fat mug of steaming black coffee. A little sugar.
Stir it well. Inhale the aroma of fresh beans. Traces
of hangover slowly fade. What bliss. I wonder if this
is finally heaven.

See, I’m simple. I’m the kind of girl who takes
pleasure in little details, just like that Troy
character in Reality Bites. The first sip of coffee,
the first bite of buttery toast, I live for the
moment.

Right. Some decisions to make. And for someone who has
breakfast at 4 PM on Sundays, it’s not an easy job.
Focus now, self. The day will be over in precisely
eight hours and it will be fucking Monday before you
know it.

While I sincerely don’t want to fall into stereotypes
here, I have to admit that I do genuinely hate
Mondays, just like every other bastard in this planet.
I am convinced that it was the Nazis that invented
Mondays. I’m sure that God created only six days in a
week, so man could work for the three days and get
wasted on the other three. It’s a balance, yin and
yang.

Right, focus.

As much as I hate to admit it, I really need to find a
job. Been living off my credit cards for the past
month and I’m on my way of maxing out the platinum
card that my dad gave me, the very card I swore, on my
golden days, never going to use, because it was an
insult to my independence.

Yeah, well, talk is cheap. Booze are not. And not to
mention those fancy drugs. And those fancy leather
shoes that I just had to buy because I was depressed
and depression did that to people.

The reality is, I’m in so much debt I think I have to
live up to 250 to pay it all off.

But finding a job, where?

Tried the corporate life for six bleeding years. Made
good money. Made good career. Made good network.
Seriously, ask around, people in the industry know me.
I’m that famous. But I know it, just like you know it,
that it’s just a lot of crap. So I bought my first
brand new car, in cash, at the age of 28 and quit. I
had no ambition to be somebody, I just wanted to be
myself.

And I found myself really, really broke and just as
disoriented, if not more.

I chose to blame the freaking philosophers. At least
money has meanings. It means Victoria’s Secret
lingerie, it means Prada bags, Manolo Blahnik shoes.
It means getting seriously drunk every weekend and the
world would be sweet all over again.

Hurry, hurry, the clock is ticking.
Fucking deadline’s breathing down my neck.
When people are under pressure, they don’t
rationalize, they just follow their guts.

So I decided to take that job they offered me at
Purgatory.