Slaughterhouse-some number

I've been, been -- er around. Don't ask where, even though I know you're not asking. Cause I guess I'll do that here anyway, that's what I'm meant to say, right? Answer me? Oh forget it, how miserable is this. No-no, actually not. I'm quite content, no well, a bit hurt. Why? Surprised? Don't be, please don't. There's no reason for it. We're not Gogo and Didi; no not here, not anywhere. Aah, so I guess I'll get to the point now. Cause you know, its not good for you to make faces at the computer screen. Don't you know that favourite forgotten myth of how the wind changes your expression and it gets locked the way it is? Now you wouldn't want to be seen in your polite social circles explaining to people how you read this blog of some random guy's, and you made a face but it remained that way? Then it would be such a shame to get Michael Jackson done to yourself. Then imagine if we meet someday, by natural occurrence, or randomly. Would it be nice. But then you would get your point across on seeing me with a face like that. So I guess, oh what a shame it would be. So it goes.
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Sunday, when the good lord rest himself, when everyone does and did, there are reasons there are parties thrown. Despite knowing that a Monday comes sooner than playing Solitaire on your nothing to do workday waiting for it to end, it still happens. So it was my uncle who threw a big awesome bash to call all the close relatives of his, and self was there all dressed up, pushing himself on a Sunday to be good to everyone and please everyone. It wasn't bad. Actually not at all. It was just that self forgot that lil' surd had a b'day party at Def Col, the same time, and going by North all the way down South, when you live in a up-market village near the state further away, it was going to be a wee tough. So after a few sneaky wine shots and dinner, it was decided that I will be dropped off at lil surd's place cause he was extremely pushy about me being there. Frankly, the party seemed pretty good till the sight: I saw a pretty smashed bar; 2 chicks, 1 was of course was a kiddo and the other a pleasant looking amiable lit-studying sweet eyed.
Lil surd was all smashed about with a cake. I wished him without shaking his hands. There were few junies from school, all looking grown-up and miserable. Vaz and PC were pretty smashed. There was the big Surd who was using his UK-drinking-habits to sustain himself. There was one filthy kid, who was smoking shit pot. The others were quiet and forcing everyone to gulp a mouthful of vodka with tobasco. Kids I tell you, I felt I wasn't fitting in.
The scene ended, after a few rum n' cokes. Was crashing there, so there was no misery. That while me and Big Surd were discussing journalism in India, and where he's looking to work. Lil Surd went and crashed out in the bathroom. After 20 minutes, we were banging on the bathroom door to get him up. That was scary, had he crashed badly? Finally the caked-smothered-smashed surdy stumbled out explaining he had taken a nap while waiting for the water to heat. I haven't heard a better one, which got me sweating booze out.
The hungover, Monday-bluesed morning, self tried drinking gulping beer with fried eggs for breakfast. It did the trick, not for long though. The day howled pass by me. The evening everyone convinced me that Lil Sam, on his way out to Mumbhai (guess everyone's going there suddenly, what's the rush?) -- to come and celebrate at his small tiny farewell. The only hitch: dude, his place is far across the dirty river of the city. But self pushed self to be there.
Who do I see there: Pirate and Meghs and the office bunch, how cool. Sweet. No sweet for what they were rolling. Hadn't smoked ^ for ages. Although I'm not a convincing relentless pothead, its occasional toke keeps me hanging in and around. Then few more drinks and some random bad jokes, a Cohen listening ride back home turned pretty good.
Although Tuesdays are generally very stupid and pointless days, self called Vaz to make a scene. Vaz called PC, we had a scene. The scene: PC's searching his mansion to find all the rum bottles he owns, not to mention the countless that lie there otherwise. Finally a half big bottle, a half small bottle is found. PC gulps half the, half small bottle to determine whether its not outdated, all neat, says its all fine. Few drinks down we hit NFC to eat minced meat served with mayonnaise. Hardcore stuff. Slept late, woke up, bought my dad Little Walter and Sonny Boy Williamson -- fucking amazing blues artists.
Now at home. Dinner while watching My Cousin Vinny. Folks get back after dinner, tell me: this kid, one year juni of mine in school, got drunk in ran over two people and now's he's run away. I remembered, the kid to be a bit dumb, but I was quite fond of him. The news' got me shaken up a bit. We Rajputs have got a terrible past, doesn't leave some of us.