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  • bouncing butterflies and hopping ant hills

    posted July 28, 2007 7:52 am

    At this point of blog, I am drunk.

    No joke.

    I am writing this with my head swaying from left to right like an angry pendulum, waiting to slam onto the walls of the clock it’s trapped within. My nostrils are flaring up with such heat that I can barely breathe well; my temples pounding like it’s an amateur’s drum fest first time rehearsal going on in there.

    It’s only 14%. Bloody 14%. A gift from an old friend whom I may not be able to see ever again in my entire life.

    No, I’m not fictionalizing this.

    On the glass bottle is a label with the words HillStation, The Riverland, 2003 Shiraz Cabernet, Wine of Australia imprinted in elegant block letters. I’ve only taken two sips. Or three. I don’t remember.

    The pendulum is still swinging.

    A friend once told me that there are two types of drinkers: the joyful drinker, and the depressed drinker. The joyful drinker drinks and goes all euphoria he-he-he; laughing like the world is a joke, giggling like his/her life is the most amusing object to ever exist. The depressed drinker drinks, sips, and remains silent.

    Then she starts writing nonsense like what I’m doing now.

    I am refraining myself from sleeping, because I know that if I do, I’ll wake up with the worst hangover ever, and beat myself up silly for putting myself in such a state. Howie Day’s playing upstairs, and the monotonous buzzing of the droning idiot box in the background isn’t helping my keeping-awake attempts very much.

    I had to repeat my sentence four times to Dad, because apparently I didn’t make sense.

    I am surprised how coherent this blogpost sounds.

    Maybe I’m not drunk. Maybe I’m telling myself I am, because I want to be. Rashes are popping up already – I don’t want them, because they came up during Aron’s 21st and that really spoilt all the fun – but I am sipping like there is no tomorrow.

    I’ll probably die of overheating, because Ispandi fed me with durian ice blended yesterday, and here I am drinking wine, stuffing my chipmunk face with walnuts.

    Walnuts. What the hell is wrong with me?

    Let me tell you that it’s not easy typing this. If I’d publish this post without editing it, you’d be laughing at the amount of typos a drunkard can make.

    I am only a little more than disappointed that this doesn’t sound even the slightest bit eccentric. I’m thinking of elephant ears flapping to the rhythm of the bus engine on a hut summer’s day, but all I can ever write about that is.. well, that.

    Maybe I’m not so drunk after all. And THAT, ladies and gentleman (not gentlemen, because in my dictionary there is only one gentleman in the whole wide world, and he is the one whose sperm contributed to my existence), is the biggest disappointment in itself.

    In William Lo Heng Loong’s words..

    …’that’s so gay, man’

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