Shruthi’s here, talking about her
story, about “how life is endless cowshit, but every now and then it all falls
into place and that’s why Bhaktin makes total sense, you know?” and Nat is
telling her, “it’s a substantial idea, but it’s already been done, da. It’s
already been done.”
It’s Wednesday so Shobha and Naveen are here – playing the same songs– she’s high on his guitar and he’s drunk on her voice and soon their songs will go off key and they’ll leave for a quickie; so the DJ will play the worst remix of Hey Jude.
It’s Wednesday so Shobha and Naveen are here – playing the same songs– she’s high on his guitar and he’s drunk on her voice and soon their songs will go off key and they’ll leave for a quickie; so the DJ will play the worst remix of Hey Jude.
There’s Shalini, wearing red high
heels and matching lipstick, disguising her writer’s block and making herself
available for a potboiler story full of angst and bitterness which will
probably be up on her blog by tonight. Kenny is at the pool table, rolling his
own cigarettes, wearing that bloody fedora again like he’s some kind of film
director chilling in Koshys. Here comes Ritu, being the ridiculously beautiful
woman she is, dressed for a fucking Taj party, ignoring Kenny, asking Naveen to
play something slow and pretending that she’s got somewhere better to go next.
Shruthi and Nat stumbled in behind her, pretending to be lesbians, being asses
as usual. They’ve read so much existential and absurdist crap lately that they’re
convinced nothing matters, not even the fact that they’re complete asses.
Pah!
Look at all these fucking asses,
bloody fools. With their talents and critiques and theories and philosophies
and hang-ups and daddy issues and bullshit. And I have to witness all of it.
But really, I mean, really?
Who am I to judge?
I’m just some bum, drunker than the rest of them, sitting at the bar and scribbling about our lives on crumpled tissue paper. And in reality, now that I’m swaying in my seat, feeling all warm inside, and in such a state to choose my own reality, we’re no different from one another. We’re just a bunch of worried, hopeless, “starving,” artists and writers and musicians and actors and fucking asses that come to this pub for the exact same goddamn reason:
Who am I to judge?
I’m just some bum, drunker than the rest of them, sitting at the bar and scribbling about our lives on crumpled tissue paper. And in reality, now that I’m swaying in my seat, feeling all warm inside, and in such a state to choose my own reality, we’re no different from one another. We’re just a bunch of worried, hopeless, “starving,” artists and writers and musicians and actors and fucking asses that come to this pub for the exact same goddamn reason:
it’s Ladies Night.
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