57. Deathrow High
The next morning, I woke up early. Though I’d slept late…close to sunrise, I got out of bed before ten. Ai Leen was snoring cute. I had no intentions of disturbing her, so I went down to the convenience store and bought myself the Sunday Times. The happiness was lingering, thus I felt I could do anything. Nonetheless, I’d forgotten my promise…that I would no longer waste time and instead do something with my life. Automatically I walked to the kitchen to boil water and make coffee. Fat Boy’s impression was fresh in my mind so I put on his CD. Occasionally I grooved to it, but my body hurt after last night’s dancescapade, so I merely triggered a few half-hearted steps. Later, I switched on the TV and slouched to the shape of a couch potato. Ai Leen was still unawake. I let her sleep.
There was nothing exciting on telly, so I moved to the papers next. The usual was reported, bad news mostly - like always. Remember what I told you about our fascination with the morbid? This is exactly it! Sometimes I wonder if it is the coverage of such negative tabloid that propels others to commit further crimes. Entertainment has always been a scapegoat for disturbing incidents that hit headlines; music, movies, computer games, all have not been spared. Why not the newspaper? After all, it is the bearer of ill tidings.
The Daily was upsetting me. I didn’t want any of this on a bright, cheery late-morning Sunday, so I tossed it and considered waking Ai Leen for some ‘action.’ Decided against it. Now my bones are getting restless. I need to invest my energy before it morphs into aggression. I had no bouts of tiredness though I’d slept little, and in fact I was just rearing to go.
But I had nothing to do!
Mentally I calculated my options. Basically they weren’t too appealing, for they consisted of activities like going back to bed, going downstairs for breakfast blah blah blah. The only thing worthwhile was to relive the night. So Fat Boy conjured up like Princess Leia’s hologram in Star Wars. The man stood on his podium with the disco lights flashing on and off around him. He was an icon on a pedestal, not unlike the statues of Mother Mary or the cool poses of Keanu Reaves in The Matrix. The devotees thronged his temple with a maniacal rush and adored his powers with rhythmic exertions of House.
In this sub-altered surrealistic world, I was lieutenant. Mere mortals admired my position with Ai Leen. Then it all came back: the positive spirits of the night filtered through the pores of my skin and illuminated the soul like a phosphorescent devil…
…just be…
Just be whatever you want to be. Don’t blow it all away. The ecstasy tripled and it instinctively drove my hands to yesterday’s Star. There are no job openings published on Sunday, but there’re plenty on Saturday. With the help of my trusty mug of Nescafe, I skimmed the recruitment pages to detect vacancies that could be of interest to me. There were none. Defeated, I started evaluating. What was I looking for? Why am I searching for work in the first place? My desires had nothing to do with marketing or admin. No way am I going to sell credit cards or insurance policies. No way am I going to sit in the office and meticulously dig through paperwork after paperwork. I want to create! But such openings in the artistic line were mainly for graphic designers. I considered the option as a copywriter, but doubted my prose. I rate my language and writing to be okay, but I’d not been formally trained in this field. And besides, I know nuts about advertising texts. Don’t think I’m cut out for it.
The others advertised were managerial types. Otherwise it was for technical wizards that had no implications or bearing. I won’t be caught dead in manufacturing. Ai Leen’s suggestion scrambled in through a memory window and I considered venturing into business. Question is…what business?
Maybe I should enrol in a class of some sort and excel in a particular art. I don’t know, I could take up pencil sketching or airbrushing, after all, I’d always admired Luis Royo and that guy who drew Dawn.
Greatest artworks are of women of otherworldliness. Man, can they spur the imagination. Femme fatales. I think I just wanna die…in them…
They are usually portrayed with a supernatural aura. Qualities you know will never exist in human girls no matter how outspoken and acute they are in business or independent they seem projecting Grrl Power! These ladies, like characters in movie scripts, kick ass and slaughter mortal males. Human behaviour is strange, isn’t it? Guys want to dominate in a relationship and yet succumb to the harness of an authoritarian chick. Women want to be on top and under at the same time!
I think such hotties do roam around…somewhere in the universe besides my mind. It’s a big space after all, and there are countless stars with bodies orbiting round. Our scientists’ knowledge of the heavens is nil compared to the scope and size of the cosmos. It’s quite logical there’s alien life out there and therefore er…hot, lethal babes?
And I reason now that perhaps there is no truth. Religion cannot agree on the sacred and the supreme, so what is there to believe in in the first place? In fact, it’d be foolish to if that’s the case.
There is only vision, that which I see in my head, and whether I have the talent and wisdom to incarnate. Like being an F1 driver…it falls under the same rule. Do I have the guts to bring to life my mind? Same for the hotties, dangerous or demure…it’s up to me to motivate myself and possess them. Not possible? Not if I use my illusion and believe that I can! Of course I will have to act. Can’t let the delusions float around…then yer just daydreaming. What I mean is that I, you, we, have to fool ourselves with the goal visualized, and thus believing that it can be ours, strive toward it.
However, it’s easier said than done. I’m a classic case. See what I mean? I’ve gone off track. Talk about aspirations and job hunting and going into business, and I end up with a boner thinking about hard-hitting vixens to die for. Ai Leen will no longer be spared!
She woke up to the tune of my prick. It was close to twelve, and stiffy was vibrating like an alarm all over her ass.
“What are you doing?” Ai Leen asked incoherently of the obvious.
My reply was a continuous rupture of movements that shifted the sheets.
“What time is it?”
“Close to twelve,” came my answer in between kisses.
“Why are you so horny?”
“I’m a guy.” Best reply I’d given a girl in years.
Ai Leen turned round to pacify me; and the rest is censored.
To reveal slightly, we partly played out the fantasy art…
Later, I discussed certain elements of yesterday’s revelation with her. Mostly, I yakked on Fat Boy’s genius and the great time we had together. I did tell her about my ambitions, `cos I figured it’d score points on her rating chart, but left out the pathetic need for getting on in the workforce like a typical bloke. There are two sides to ambition. One is linked to our hobbies and passions which we hope to make a living off, but uncertain whether we’re able. The other has to do with mundane repetitive tasks that appear to go nowhere, but guaranteed to bring in the dough.
For me, it’s a bit different. Hobbies and passions I have not; a little interest I do. The issue is whether I can sustain that interest after I find out how difficult it is to learn. On the other hand, I have cash! I don’t have to be crushed under the mill as a wage earner.
So it’s both good and bad. With money already in my pocket, I can concentrate on activities that reward with fulfilment and satisfaction. What more, to be paid for it…? Sounds too good to be true.
However, I’m not a self-motivator. Leave me on my own and I’ll probably crumble. All that initial interest dissolves to dust and so too will whatever fulfilment and satisfaction accumulated over. And when it occurs, the collapse will be deeper, the blow harsher.
That night I slept alone, and I was depressed. The high had evaporated through the course of the bright, cheery Sunday, and I have no idea where it’d gone. I feel suicidal; I feel like calling Ai Leen, but I have a habit of suffering alone. Where did it go? Happiness can’t be lost like that. It’s not a five-year-old left unattended. Yet, it’s not around. From the minute I felt fear in being completely honest with Ai Leen, it’d begun its descent.
No more are the dreams present. Vanished are sculptures I’ll mould, racing cars I’ll drive, music I’ll write…gone…all gone.
AI generated art prompted by author except for images of David, Dizzy & F1
All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental