Furball
‘Football! Wake up now, we will watch their finals,’ I stirred from my hangover when my friend phoned me. I’m still nursing myself from last night’s drunkenness. I always hate the day after. Fuck alcohol. Never good for me.
I think I’m getting old for this jungle. I spaced out at the field while my friend explain to me the mechanics of the game. I want to learn it so next time I could actually run on the field myself and pull some muscles tight. My friend was getting frustrated with me cuz I keep shaking my head in confusion, I’m still nursing my hangover and nothing was processing. May be next time. I went back to the bleacher and stared at the players from below, my friend sat beside me pointing out people on the field. ‘People watching,’ I told her it feels like we are watching a bunch of people in an aquarium. It’s funny how she’s so observant of the people around us, I told her I barely notice these things sometimes, or may be I was still out of it.
After a buffet dinner I asked my friend to accompany me to get a car wash. While waiting I stared at nothingness again. ‘Hey, what are you thinking,’ my friend asked. ‘Nah, I’m just tired,’ I replied. My phone squeaked, messages from friends asking me to join them party tonight. I wanted to just rest and listen to mellow sound. God, I was so tired that I plumped myself on the bed when I got home but my head won’t shut. Nothing, I’m in a nothing process mode but I still can’t sleep. It could get so frustrating.
I went back to finish some photos, I looked at some of mine and it frustrated me to see myself in such a way that reminded me of someone I hate. My eyes, my smile, she copied me so much that I could see it in me already, the way I took my photos, the way I write, the way I say things. Shit I hate her. I loathe her. Yeah, loathe, I feel so much disgust that in my mind I took a long stake and thrust it straight to her chest and push her up against the wall. I don’t want you. Leave me alone. I feel like she’s Adele, Jenny’s assistant in Lword season 5. She’s scary. Who wants to be a photocopy when you can just be you? ‘Why don’t we just entitle the fashion editorial, ‘Xerox’,’ my photographer friend sarcastically told me one time when I went to him to complain at a proposal for my concept that got turned down cuz my boss wants to just copy something than create something new. I hate copying; it’s a mockery of anyone’s intelligence. And her? God, can’t she be her own, she’s making me hate her so much. That she is, I will call her Xerox. My friend said, ‘my god, the characters you attract are like the characters in the movie ‘Single White Female’!’ It’s giving me tingles at the back of my neck. And I would think I’m crazy, gods there are crazier ones.
