The unemployed

The unemployed is free.
Of the burdens of time.
Of the shackles of money.
Of the life.
-Anoushka Antoinette.

And everything in between is life.

We wanted to tell him he wasn’t funny. But we wanted to be nice. That is what our parents taught us for the first ten years of our delicate existences. Even if wanted to go down the honesty is the best policy road of life we would be unable to do so merely because we were slaves of conditioning. So we laughed like we were watching stand up comedy, we asked for round 8 even though we wished to go back to a time where even round one did not exist. We felt terrible about the daily lies, but after a point you convince yourself that there are no truths or no lies in the world. If anything there are facts, coldblooded facts of life. Nice was a fact.
We wanted to tell her she could hold a tune as much as a high school girl could hold her alcoholic beverages. But we wanted to be nice. The Man and wife that fulfilled their duties to the Homo sapiens species by procreating believed that to be nice is nice. So we played along just as we played along with the Santa story and ghosts. We are not stupid, we are children, were children, are children. So we swayed to her vocal emissions like a swarm of bees. We clapped till our thenar eminence turned a shade that was the colour of communism. We did not wish the difference between our thoughts and what we verbalized to be somehow similar to the high definition contrast between Miles Davis and Milli Vanilli. Things turn out different from the original schedule. You have only the option of erasing all memory of the fundamental scheme of things. A nice pretence of falseness is a false pretence of niceness.
We wished to convey to her that all kinds of whales, big and large, in the pacific referred to her as ‘the whale’. But we wanted to be nice. We would not deny her the 56th ham burger she guiltily craved; instead we would incorporate fast food delivery phone attendant behaviour and convince her that the triple super duper combo with the fries and Coco cola was far more amicable to her pocket money. A good deal is a good deal. We blind man visioned her attempts to order juice over beer. A six pack was at the base of her Maslow pyramid, or so we made her believe. We made her believe because we wanted ourselves to believe the honesty in our dishonesty. We were shallow, shallow creatures of scum nature. We were truly lowly insects that sucked the blood of terminal cancer patients.
The world of Technicolor niceness was not the real world. It was a cruel world that made the shy believe they were scared, the genius that they were awkward, the overweight they were beasts, the poor they were weak and the rich they were nice. The fact of life is. What is the fact of life? There are no facts. There are truths and there are lies and everything in between is life.

B T Tuesday

Blue tooths in white collars. White tooths in blue collars.

It was tuesday again. And tuesday was the most special day of the seven day week that ended with the sabbath day. Sure, sunday would always be delightful .But Sunday cost a whole lot more than Tuesday did. Hence, to demonstrate simply and mathematically: Tuesday> Sunday.

Why in the world would any sane human person consider tuesday to be even remotely special. Tuesday was the hangover day to the Monday blues. And hence, is the classic unspecial day. Case closed. Or is it open?

Tuesday evening.
The weather is humid, I am prancing around with two gigantic bug shaped sweat patches on my purple t-shirt. But there is a cool breeze that ruffles my short hair every so often. Some relief is better than no relief. You do agree? I walk into Bootleggers, a bar I had come to frequent since the Tuesday revolution occurrence. The noisy warm outside is suddenly replaced by a calm, well lit, air conditioned atmosphere . The difference the opening of one door makes to the world around you will never cease to amaze me. I spot Frogface and B sitting on a table , not facing each other. B is swaying to the music and her cigarette is swaying to her. Her eyes are shut and she has entered prenirvana zone. Amy has the quintessential awkward face that will get her the blame for a war that occurred in Peru. She fiddles with the Jenga on the table, narrating the history of Jenga and how it was invented by a Jamaican tribe in the early thirteenth century. I walk toward the table without being spotted by either of them. I sit down. I do not utter a single word. I reach for a cigarette , light it, smoke it.

Cosmopolitan?
Frogface and B reply in the affirmative.

Round two. Round three.
There is more human interaction between the trio .
Round four.
B is nowhere to be seen. Frogface is laughing for the first time. And I am ordering my 8th drink. I say lets keep on keeping on. B appears from the Mens urinal. She has a grin on her face that reminds me of my future daughter's smile after she has stolen a cookie from the cookie jar in the kitchen. B claims she puked in the Mans Room. WE applaud. We laugh. Next?

Its ten. Its time to head back to the palace of the bighipped. We get up and walk out. Happy and gay. Our pockets happy and gay as well. I love that we are ladies and can avail of the awesome phenomenon that is Ladies Night. Tuesday. Bootleggers.
Lets have some Fun. This beat, it really is sick.