Last Week Repo(r)t
Looking back to the last seven (all right, eight) days I’ve been through, still, I’m questioning: how can a man’s life fit in a 3-act-structure?
[SUN’S DAY]
Exhausted. That’s it. If I insist to arrange MY life into a three-act-structure, maybe I can conclude this last weekend as Act 2. So that makes today as the beginning of Act 3.
Noo, not that I’m ready to end my life, silly. Let’s just say…, I’m ready for the next big SEQUEL. Wish me luck.
[MOON’S DAY]
Breaking somebody’s heart means to break oneself’s heart. Learned it hard way. But lesson learned, nevertheless. And, what do you know, after that, we both smile.
[TWIST DAY]
He lied again. He lied without blinking. I wish I can be as good as you, in lying. But I can’t. Now I won’t. You’re good. But not that good.
[WODEN’S DAY]
Catching a fever. Sitting in a room without images. Breathing in man-made air. Surrounded by fellow licensed jesters. Repetitive dinner menu. And Nat King Cole sings, “In a restless world like this is. Love is ended before it's begun…”
Shit. I don’t have to remember THAT.
[THIRST DAY]
Riding in a roller-coaster called Moody Ride. Click-ety-click. It’s riding up. A story about a loser who got lucky with his sole dedication. Funny how life’s treating people, even to those who doesn’t appreciate it.
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favorite things
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
("My Favorite Things", written by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II)
Whoosh. Then it gets you down. Another message guaranteed to get you depressed. Then yet another message. And another one. And another one. Shit.
How about TV? A stupid flick about a dog who can outrun anybody in soccer. Yeah, right. Why don’t they make up a story about a monkey who can play hockey? Oh, they did it already. I forgot.
[FIRE DAY]
We ride up again. Woo-hoo. A chance to expand your view. Then we ride down again. Quick! Put on your best mask! Make sure it’s your 100% genuine mask.
What do we have here? The Fixer, by Joe Sacco. I wish I can fix my wallet first. Then Gemma Bovery, by Posy Simmonds. God. I hope I’m not as desperate as she is. Next, House of Glass by Paul Auster. Obsession. Scary thing.
This week. Two more reasons. Two more considerations.
Dropped off in front of the building. Some guy behind felt that he had all the rights in the world. So he honked. Easy, tough guy. Two more honks. It tempted us only to go even slower. Ha. I looked him in the eyes. He looked back. We’ll meet again, sucker.
In front of the elevator. Rushing to get in. Too late. The doors slides shut. And there was somebody in there who doesn’t give a shit.
[SATYR DAY]
Crap. 80% of my decision-making-process today depends on whether I have a computer or not, with a certain software. Maybe I should set up a computer-idol at home and start worshipping it. It’s far easier. Arguably, with a same dose of sin. Haha.
Cheer up, pal. Your next big sequel may start from this moment.
[SUN’S DAY]
(it’s raining, and we sat on a grey bench)
+ You’ll never change, won’t you? How can I assure you that there is such a thing called H-E-L-P?
(no answer)
+ A word of warning: keep up like this, in the end, there will be only one person left pitying you. Yourself. And by that time, you know what loneliness is.
(still no answer. Then I'm not sure whether she's there or not. I hope I'm not talking to myself)
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