“So, the way I figure it is so –”
“Isn’t that an extra ‘so’… grammar-wise?”
“Shut up and listen Cilly… I’m philosophizing.”
“At effing 2.47 in the morning? Of an effing working day?”
“Not for me… only the staff in McDonald’s works weekends. Not us suits.”
“Great… go ahead… be a selfish bitch… show no mercy for the under-working-class friend.”
“Alright then. In which case, like I was saying –”
“Ugh Dee… just ugh!”
“Shh… listen. Everyone loves themselves, right?”
“Not everyone. Some people pretty much hate their lives.”
“But that’s just it… they hate their lives because they are convinced that they deserve better… which is because they love themselves. Even people who keep drawing attention to their faults or illnesses or shit… they just want the rest of us to notice how interesting they are. See?”
“Hmm… maybe. So?”
“So if someone knows me the way I know me… he, or she, depending on gender… no wait, it’s orientation these days… so much politics! Why can’t I call a babysitter a babysitter if what she does for a living is sit babies?”
“Knows you the way you know you?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah. Knows me the way I know me. Then he has to fall in love with me. I mean logically… I know me. I love me. Ryan knows me. Ryan will love me. Right?”
“Who’s Ryan?”
“No one. It’s just a name. Don’t you just love names with a ‘y’ in them?”
“You’re so Russian sometimes Dee.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s Russian.”
“Like salad?”
“Yup… completely tossed.”
“I wish you were a guy Cilly… then I could have fallen for you… I think.”
“Okay… disturbing visual there. Maybe we should put the bottle away now.”
“What have we been having anyway? Doesn’t taste like any wine I’ve ever had.”
“Not wine… wine finished an hour back twit. This is scavenged white rum.”
“Scavenged?”
“Discovered under the sink while rooting around for kitchen towels.”
“Oh. Well. No harm done I suppose. After all, if they use alcohol to preserve stuff then alcohol itself can’t possibly go bad, can it?”
“I suppose not.”
“And it will definitely not rip your heart out, shred your self-esteem to bits, and tell you over an effing sandwich that you are not meant and that it met someone else.”
“Ah… we’re back to Neil now, are we?”
“What? Who’s Neil? Never heard of a Neil in my life. Except for that Armstrong fellow. That bastard! That assholish moronic scum-of-the-universe jelly-limbed stone-hearted bastard!”
“Armstrong?”
“No! My Neil!”
“You mean ex-My Neil. Or is it My ex-Neil? No that is definitely wrong… he is still Neil. Just not yours. Maybe ‘ex-My’, give a pause, and then Neil.”
“Just give me more wine Cill.”
“Rum. We’re having rum. At least we are for another shot each. Then we’re down to vodka.”
“Whatever. Just continue pickling my liver please.”
“C’mon Dee! I gotta go to work tomorrow!”
“Why? You hate it anyway. Quit.”
“You can’t be plastered enough to not be able to spell money dear heart. Plus it’s not like you like your job either. In fact, if memory guides me correctly, which to be fair, at this point in this evening’s entertainment is fairly doubtful, you way beyond hate it.”
“Oh gawd Cill! How did I end up this way? How? I was going to be so glam… I was going to have exotic adventures… I was going to have a high-flying job, a gorgeous absolutely-Rhett love-of-my-life, a black cat, and one of those nifty convertibles. I was going to be Sex-in-the-effing-City. And now look at me! I am… I am…”
“Teletubbies?”
“Worse. A Teletubby rerun. And not even in plural.”
“I know honey… I know.”
“No you don’t.”
“No. I don’t... More vodka?”
“Keep it coming sister… just keep it coming.”
***
I’ve always been a decisive sort of person professionally… the obsessive kinds with a twenty-three year plan (A, B, C and fallback). On a personal level, I’m a mess… I should have been born a decade earlier… then I wouldn’t have to explain why I have an unexplainable affinity towards disco heels, Top Gun theme, Fifth Element and Independence Day, George Michael (yes… I do… deal), the Beanstalk logo, Maurier, Gericault, bubble wrap and high-rises.
And then there’s the fact that I can never shop for anything for myself… and when I do buy stuff for myself, ten minutes out of the store and I already hate what I bought. I could pretend I like something except image consultants are so darned expensive… and let’s face it, until I take over the world, I remain the proletariat. But then, how long can they restrain greatness? I shall bide my time… and meanwhile have disastrous wardrobe days thrice a week.
This is also why I shall be looking like an underage-wannabe-pink-cinderella-in-a-vague-semblance-of-an-evening-dress-thingummy for my farewell.
At least I am passing out of the Uni. And the food’s free.
