Thursday, 24 September 2015

Thursday, 17 September 2015

Bae or no bae

There is nothing more that can ruin a man's night than a missed kiss. A kiss so close you lean for it and then her head just moves away like an infant who wanted nothing to do with food. It plagued my night and day and the following night and day again. I am clearly not meant for this task.

For what it is worth, it is high time for me to ruin my life further and detach and dissociate myself from the rest of the outside world for the third time, further destroying my faith and sanity on my own self and the entire humanity.

Regardless of what has been said, I do not condone this and I have yet to feel a dysfunction creep right through me.

Swinging by with an alibi

Roxana found herself outside my doorsteps unexpectedly. I did not even have the time to react. It was the shittiest time she could shown herself there, and now I reap what I have sown. Of course, I wish it was under better circumstances that we found ourselves swimming over. When I opened the door, she had a fag in her gabber and I just stood there lifeless and gutted, feigning for a hug. Was I the one that influenced her the error of my ways?

She had always appeared tired whenever she graced herself in presence. Her face was slightly red, swollen by fatigue, the pores on her cheeks form tiny craters side by side. Her golden hair, ruined by the wind and rain's wicked howl, was missing a slight tint. She had centaur thighs after walking all day, and she had not a single penny for god knows why or how. But there I stood across her body that reeked of toxic air, seducing this woman with my lacklustre charm.

It was a shitshow, that one, clearly, but we were making the most out of the predicament. We had little time to catch up; she was exhausted beyond any doubt, and we both had important priorities come the morn. Worst of all -- worst of fucking all -- we did not have a proper bed space to rest, so we had to make do with the tight alley kitchen equipped with the rotten stench of rubbish and shit and all because my backboneless pa forgot to grow himself some. How my hath fallen.

It was not an easy task to crawl my way into her trous for two apparent reasons (1) I was not sure if I really was indeed attractive to this femme (perhaps spiritually, but I am at the far edge of the fence if we are discussing physical and emotional matters). And yes, I am that fucking shallow to begin with. Compared to the Burberry that is Mioseon, this woman is a Primark. (2) I am a too fucking proud to deliver this confession that I am nothing more but a fucking pussy who inherited someone's sperm who had little to no backbone.

She and I exchanged a few pleasantries here and there before we collapsed to the floor in isolation from everyone else who did not seem to care. She denied my offer to sleep with me in a sleeping bag, so she found herself a chair, which was untidy beyond repair, and leaned on to the sink with a stinking shit of a rubbish bin beneath her. After an hour or so wiggling about with her trying to level herself with the discomfort, she finally fell prey to the bag. Her figure left no room for both of us. This was why I lost interest, and so I rose and leaned at the refrigerator hoping that pa would fucking show his pathetic self out the door when the clock hit five. But it was an arduously long wait. Had I known that this tragedy would have struck, I would have exited stage left the first sign she showed interest. She intended to use me -- she did use me, until the moment she took the green bus to Luton and left to go back home to Hungary that night. Please cut me the slag.

Monday, 14 September 2015

The Vagabond, pt. II

Much has been done
but very little in fact
Such is the state of the man
whose heart remains intact
When it should have leapt
the risk of being broken
When the night was whiskful
and both of us downtrodden

I was a foolish man
to think that it was fine
In fact it hurt a lot
It was such a selfish act

Please give me one more chance

Kurwa, or learning how to unlearn my learned leanings

I think it was the colour of her melon-shaped face that turned me completely off. She was so photogenic though. When she -- a stranger to me back then -- had asked me whether or not she could stay at my place for a few days or so, who was I to say no? She had captivated me fully with a photograph, and all I could do was to submit my faith fully. Just this one time, I remember whispering to myself. And then never again.

But I was obviously lying to myself. There was another thing already lined up even before this transaction with a stranger was finalised.

There she was, standing in a corner, waiting for me. The first thing that I had noticed was her hair. It was unkempt, sort of untidy, very unlike the one in her photograph. Did she deceive me? was my initial reaction. When I had glanced at her face for the first time, she seemed totally different than was expected and yet somehow still uncannily familiar.

She looked exactly like the woman that I had shared intimate time with exclusively on a webcam a long time ago. My mind would not register this anomaly properly. It was difficult for me then to take this person seriously, if only for the most mundane of reasons.

Wherever there is shape, there is a memory, and, wherever there is memory, there is also both love and hate.

Little did she know that the moment she walked into the door she had submitted herself at the mercy of his manipulative ways. What remained of her freedom was outed as a mere illusion and her future rests in his inability to organise his own. She was as helpless as tofu is alternative to pork. She could not have foreseen the error of her ways so soon.

Well, she learned now and learned she did.

Whenever he used her body as if it was a tool of possession used only to be discarded again and again, she would always turn a blind eye. She had convinced herself that her soul was loosely detached from the physical aspect of her being, and that whatever cruelty and violence he inflicted upon her sexuality would only be but a scratch to the core of her humanity. He was not a thoroughly deplorable person, and she at times found herself at the other end of a blissful climax as well as falling into the disappointment of not being able to fully satisfy their own. The mechanics of the body is a cruel thing.

Once he had inserted a finger so deep up his cunt she would squeal expletives in surprisingly rapid succession in her own native tongue. He was a neophyte, unskilled in the ways of pleasure, selfish and ignorant, lonely by tenfold. His erection would disappear as fast as it had triggered, and she would labour for hours on end sucking and humping and hoping to titillate this numb shell of a man.

He would ejaculate even before you give his cock a chance to stand erect. She would lie down beside him in bed, in total defeat, on the verge of tears, but without giving him the satisfaction of witnessing the frustration. She would sleep soundly a few minutes later, only to be awoken an hour or two afterwards when he would all of a sudden catch an erection, piercing her entire femininity at the stroke of his whim catching her unawares.

And yet, she offered no complaints and fucked him good for a few minutes, before falling back to sleep after ejaculating in one position or two. She would kiss him good night, and hug him tightly, before knocking herself unconscious bathing in his sweat.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

Complacency, pt. II

Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before

It is always so fucking exhausting when the body anticipates waking up before the alarm is able to. Feels as if your entire physical will crumble on you at any time during the day without a moment's hesitation. Clearly I have had no rest. But that's hardly the truth. I do in reality had enough of rest. The problem is when the time of rest doesn't even abide by any schedule and you wake up late at night not knowing what to do afterwards.

My schedule was to head to Brighton. After all these fuckingly retarded years. Iceland instigated all of this, and I am yet in the same bind; cash was scarce and nobody was there to lift me back up to save me from myself. It is a sad state of affairs indeed; now I comtemplate whether the plan to visit Sabrina in Wien was a good idea. There is nothing here for me in London but an unlimited supply of restarts, after all.

I had arrived in Euston with enough time to roam about and gather food for myself and whatnot. The station was swarmed with all kinds of monstrosity. It was a busy morn, and, fortunately for me and us, it wasn't as wet as we had expected. In fact, I almost could not leave home because I was too bothered by the intensity of my dandruff that time, and it took me great effort just to hide it. Two films in a row before I left was perhaps a bad idea. My feet then dragged me all the way to a busy Marks and Spencer nearby. Nabbed myself two bags of salmon sushi, a bottle of water, and some sandwich that I didn't even bother to touch until the end of day. It didn't take long before Erica had contacted me through Facebook asking of my whereabouts.

"I am inside All Bar One," I said.

"Ha ha! We're in front of you." God, how my goosebumps rose.

Moments later she arrived absent her brother, but still carrying the thick aura of insufferability. I could not even be bothered to smile upon her arrival. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, while wanting to stab each other in the back when the other one's not expecting.

Noticeably I enquired about this mystery of the absence of her younger sibling. "He's outside in the sun," she replied. She gets easily annoyed when I ask her about her life, as if I was some sort of creeper, but isn't it good character to ask a friend updates about their condition and standing in general? I don't think I even overreach. She does not even have a very interesting life story to begin with. She's unemployed, leeching off of his English boyfriend's livelihood, as much as she tries to deny the very existence of it. There is so much fiery pride in her with little to offer back that it perhaps puts even mine to shame. One can only be so shamelessly piggish and fed with pride that there is really nothing inside them of substance but it.

The three of us had been given little no choice but to suffer each other's company for about an hour or so while waiting for Iceland's arrival. It was then that Erica informed me that Angelo and Bruna already arrived in Brighton hoping to join us. They took the easier route by train because there wasn't enough room for all of us. And, no offence to Bruna, but she's a bit on the chunky side and we'd have trouble slapping our asses to our seats had she been there with us. Thankfully Erica's brother, Vitor, had not his sister's everything; from the looks to his character; to his demeanour; and his smile. Every single thing seemed the polar opposite. It would be easy to mistake them both as step-siblings or something.

Sooner or later, both Iceland and Annabelle arrived just in the nick of time before my wits started to roam off.

Okay, so the road trip did not turn out easy at all. In fact, what was supposed to be an hour-and-a-half ride suddenly became a three-hour-something slog. I would have forgiven the occasion had the company not been so utterly and disgustingly boring as shit. I have no idea how they could have survived that trip without the intervention of Angelo or someone. He was the only vibrant soul in the group that shone a bright light of hope in an otherwise sea of zombiehood mediocrity. Personalities just didn't have any chemistry at all, and we were mostly grasping at straws on what to do and where next to go.

Wednesday, 2 September 2015

Complacency, pt. I

What a day! What a lovely day!

Some days you develop a nagging intuition that a particular day was destined to be epic, storied, and one to treasure to heart only to end up being just the total opposite. Saturday was one of these days.

A couple of days prior to this monumental disappointment, I had inquired of Iceland's condition through Facebook after he disappeared without a trace on our last night out to Shoreditch.

He responded with, "I was running for half an hour totalky [sic] drunk." He was trying to catch the last train to Watford.

To tell the truth, he was quite the troublesome sod that night. All the women in our group were bothered by his unkindly behaviour; Eva, Monica, Bruna, Erica, Susana, and another Brazilian whose name escapes me (probably rhymes with Ferefa or Fafala or Falala, whatever other common Portuguese-sounding name derivative it was), were somewhat livid. Me and Eva happen to be wiggling our twerkers (struggle as I might) when Iceland would forcefully rub his pale banana all over Monica's backside. She was much to her dismay, since, if I am not mistaken, she and another guy named Nafi from Bangladesh were dating. He just happens to be swimming around the peripheries of my vision when I saw Iceland boomed his tralala upon the woman. To be fair, he was quite persistent and honest to me about his intention to bone her. Told me blankly to my face when left on our own. He was begging me to dance in between them both so as to entice her to want to dance with him instead. As if. And when his not-so-subtle advances got denied, surreptitiously to him, he went about bothering other women in the place even those beyond his paygrade until the night died itself down.

I had to admit, despite showcasing us all with his flawed shamelessness, that his efforts were commendable.

Days later, after I had washed away all the sins of that night, he then informed me through Facebook of his plan to take his French bird Annabelle (one whom he had been bad-mouthing from the day we met) out of town for a road trip. They had three available seats. After the debacle with the women on that particular night, I would have thought that they were the last persons I expected seeing. Erica, however, did, who accompanied her newly-arrived brother to go about sightseeing. This woman is borne of nightmares; the epitome of torture, agony, madness, despair, sadism, what have you; the flag-bearer of the struggles that have been unleased upon me. A woman almost impossible to befriend; amiable but thoroughly unpleasant and highly volatile. She would claw someone's face and feel no remorse about it. All for making a practical joke. She will smite you down with blank curses. Had I known that she would be there to glamorise the space with her undulating mood swings, I would not have made any promises to come and would have gladly stayed at home to procrastinate as usual. I had received a separate invitation with Augusto on another trip, might as well have entertained that, and would have gladly taken up on his offer had it not been so abrupt and costly.

Iceland was considering of going to Wales at first, and then spend a couple of nights there in a hostel or a bed-and-breakfast somewhere, which I had no funds to provide myself for, so I led him to my personal suggestions to bend away from spending. One that would hopefully be more cost-effective and adventurous as well. The weather was against us, however, and denied us of our whims, and severely limited us of our options.

"Oh yeah. A bit of hiking could be cool. I would like to find some peculiar, little villages and stuff, and an innkeeper that tells stories," Iceland said. "Or an old drunk who telks [sic] us about a monster."

I have no clue how this talk of monsters suddenly came about, but I bet that it had all to do with him being from Iceland. Just an instinctive guess. Obviously he's from Iceland, hence why I call him that, if that wasn't perfectly obvious. He is also very openly proud of his Vikingness. The lack of eyebrows may have been a giveaway. And are there not tales of trolls and giants and white walkers or whatnot over there? Or was that actually from some place else that was also Nordic? I honestly cannot tell or differentiate.

So we continued to discuss about our options, and you just absolutely cannot talk about options in England without having to discuss English weather. Lately the weather had graced us with its typical British unpredictability.

"But the forecast isn't so nice," he sighed. "if it's raining it might suck."

So I assured him, "It's good to be fine. Just bring rain clothing."

For awhile, that was that. I minded my own business as they went about theirs. Me and Augusto carried on with our negotiations. I honestly could not give the sod a guarantee. It would have been nothing but gallantry and expense, and so I sat and pouted, with lips dry and flaky, at  the comfort of my newly-prepped bed, sobbing at a dire loss.

Friday came, which was the eve of battle before we were meant to conquer Wales. I still had no penny to spare, and I would be damned if I could find a sufficient source of income when the moment of truth wiggles to my lap. Sometimes I just want to suffocate my pathetic self for being so fucking hopeless and retarded.

"Can you come to Watford early in the morning tomorrow?" Watford was where Iceland and his girlfriend Annabelle had lived. I cannot say for sure if I had been there, but I wouldn't want to know and find out. "Two days in hostels in Wales? Weather sucks though. Maybe Brighton instead? We can also just do a day trip."

Brighton would be the better option. There isn't really much there that is of substance, even though I have never been there despite numerous attempts to do so, so it's going to be extra cheap and I won't be damned to pay for more than a night when he proposed for a mere day trip. As much as I want a long and winding road trip, the opportunity just was not very understanding of my predicament. The last time I pinched myself to go to Brighton, I remember, was when Mioseon was still here in England in the uncomfort of my company. Such thoughts now make me want to defecate a sack of bricks.

It was a go. He had informed me before we broke off that night that he sent word to every single plebeian in their own private Whatsapp group. Bunch of knobheads, all are. I had felt an ominous dread overcome me since then, but unfortunately it was hard to pull back when I had already given my word. My word is absolute. As it should be.

"Meeting tomorrow at Euston!" he joyfully shared. I could almost taste the sincere enthusiasm off of his Icelandic bollocks. "At 9:30."

I do not trust time management, especially with these lot. Whenever these people discuss a particular time or any particular place, it is always bound to fuck up, somehow. Always. But I ignore this and honour the agreement anyway. Sad thing is: I was right. The fuckers were, in fact, an hour an half late.

His last words to me before we broke off was: "Erica and her brother will be coming with us." I replied with a simple "Great." and a huge bottle of salt in one hand and a razor blade on the other, hoping that the gods would just smite me from where I stood.

Search and destroy