the urban weekend

One
Bar

It’s an alcohol-fueled, ecstasy-induced euphoria. The blinding light, the blaring sound, the
air is breathing hedonism. Drown your sorrow in 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.

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 leave 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 StarTrek, some ask Google, 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.

Two
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.

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!

Three
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. 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 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 in hell.