Diary entry:
"We had another productive penis-related discussion today. Christian, the geeky guy Alecia is completely infatuated with, had made a comment about Americans having rather small penises. Allegedly, a research on that topic was conducted and they concluded that an average American penis was 12.1cm long. May commented that African Americans (yes, I'll use that expression to cushion the inappropriate comments concerning the Chinese girl) don't have as large penises as people are convinced. If that were true, the average of American penises would surely be bigger. Anyway, we started Googling penises. We learned that Danish people had the biggest and Irish people had the smallest. I've always wondered if guys measured their penises. I mean, if I were a guy, I definitely would. I'd be interested to know. If I remained unsatisfied with the numbers, I'd deny ever doing it. For some UNKNOWN reason, I asked Christian if guys actually did that and he used the best evasive maneuvers he could compose at the time and never answered my question. I really wonder why he did that.
We located the Chinese girl. I accidentally found her on Facebook; she attended some kind of party, posted pictures and tagged one of my friends who volunteers at AIESEC. Damian proved to be completely useless. Facebook is the mother board of all stalkers. Eh, no use in befriending her now since she would be going home soon. Still, fun search."
The thing that never fails to stoop me is when someone calls us civilized people; academic citizens. We can hardly be called a civilized group of people. We're no where close to being civilized. Hell, at times, we can hardly be called 'people' (the Chinese girl incident). This particularly springs to surface during our everyday conversations. Normal people are capable of conducting serious discussions about politics, religion or economics on a daily basis. We aren't. Most of our serious discussions consist of a single question and an answer. For example, our last presidential elections practically went unmentioned in our apartment. I distinctively remember the full 10 seconds of conversation we devoted to that issue. I had been resting in my bed and Alecia was surfing the web. My head was stuck beneath my pillow and her back was turned to me. We didn't even look at each other.
"Who are you gonna vote for?" I offered my response without even lifting my head. She did the same. After that, the discussion was over. Also, here's another example:
"I would like to get married in a church one day." She said.
"I wouldn't."
The end.
That's pitiful. We're unable to compose interesting and socially adequate discussions about general topics for the love of God. However, when it comes to conversations about which vegetable would most likely end up behind bars or what kind of utterly disgusting bodily fluids humans are apt to produce, we are able to devise bullet proof and extensive theories.
"We had started talking about church and religion more and more lately. Of course, not through their generally accepted context. On our last American Affirmative Drama class, the professor had asked us if we were going to hold the class on Good Friday. We refused because, as Alecia delicately explained, "we have to go to church and pray for the salvation of our souls". I commented that there weren't enough prayers in this world that would get us there. Church and religion jargon eventually become a cover for a nasty habit we had been cherishing publicly for the past couple of years. Whenever we're going out, knowing that by the end of the night we'd be under the table, we use a bit of church jargon. If I'm going to the bar, I leave a note saying that I'm off to church. This is usually a cue for Ella to rush in with a comment about praying on my knees all night at the altar, adding a certain perverseness to an already disrespecting topic. I'm pretty convinced that God's in cahoots with karma. He's not allowed to strike us with that arrow of His (the one Blair's always mentioning) because the New Testament is forcing that loving and forgiving image upon Him, so he's sending in karma to do the dirty work for him, you know, by making us pee on decent people and such."
They say that every cigarette takes away approximately 20 minutes of one's life. I find it acceptable since those last couple of years probably won't be that interesting. I see myself as a crumbled up old woman, wrapped in six layers of wool clothes which would be preventing my kidneys from falling out, situated in a wheelchair and throwing my denture towards the refrigerator. Also, I can easily see myself complaining a lot. I mean, I constantly complain even now, I can only imagine what will happen when I accumulate about 60 years of life experience under my belt. I'm not exactly a hypochondriac. I'm just a sissy. Every week brings a new medical condition over which I so eagerly nitpick.
Strangely enough, that doesn't prevent me from enjoying a decent smoke, especially when I'm drinking. Alecia and Blair are experienced smokers who probably enjoyed their first cigarette before thrusting the first pad into their panties. If Death came to collect them, they would most likely cajole it into waiting for them to have one last smoke. There's nothing wrong with that. I mean, I'm sure many children have a desire to be mistaken for a steam engine when growing up. So, they're official smokers.
May and myself, on the other hand, we're the worst kind of smokers there is. We're sneaky and occasional smokers who, when drunk, would probably try to sell each other for a cigarette. We're also authors of the 4 seconds rule (when something we're about to eat falls on the floor we have 4 seconds to collect it before germs invade it) which is extended to an 11 seconds rule if it involves a cigarette. The 4 seconds rule had to be modified because we're usually drunk and it's dark when this happens so it takes us more time to locate it. I remember this one particular Thursday when we still had been living in our old apartment; we got drunk and walked to the centre. Since we lived in a completely different time zone, secluded from the rest of the civilization and all means of transportation, we needed about 40 minutes on foot to get there. This period would be extended to a full hour if we had been wasted, which was often the case. We would travel lightly, from one bench to another, never missing out on an opportunity to test our vocal cords and the nerves of people living nearby. Anyway, on that evening, May had decided to wear her 'special occasion' earrings. We stopped at the first bench we could find, merely couple of hundreds of metres from our apartment. Couple of us started singing as if on cue, sounding worse than ten February cats which were glued together, thrown in a bag and smacked against a brick wall. This is definitely one of the most common miscalculations of being drunk; the idea that you're a talented singer. You're not. You're embarrassing yourself. You should stop before someone films you, posts the video on Facebook and tags you.
Anyway, May had managed to get a cigarette and she was flailing her hands around when she accidentally dropped it onto the ground. She leaned forward and as she did, her earring fell into the grass as well. She started yelling about losing an earring and knelt on the ground, trying to find it. In about 30 seconds, she stood up and her face lit with joy. She raised her hands in a reassuring manner and exclaimed:
"Don't worry people! I found the cigarette!"
I'm not sure what happened to the earring. It's possible that it is still somewhere out there.
No comments:
Post a Comment