Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Happy Fuckin' Birthday To Me








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It's the 26th of July, my birthday. All the skeletons in the closet have been invited to celebrate. Tonight, encouraged with plentiful of fine drinks, we will dig out all our fears, sadness, petty jealousies, aggressions and the latent insanity for everyone to see. The cake is filled with cyanide and razorblades. This could be the end of a beautiful friendship.

A well-known music business professional and promoter, Mr. Super Manager harasses all the women present and insults everyone. Suddenly the place is full of bleary-eyed but rowdy professional alcoholics, all-round parasites, people you don't even know, always a friend of a friend of a friend, who drink all your booze, empty your fridge and express their gratitude by stealing the silverware before leaving and urinating in your rose bush on their way. So many VIP guests around, what a sight to see. The rats in the cellar must have their feast too. After the guests have passed out, the rats sneak out of the darkness and start to gnaw at the guests' faces, too oblivious in their drunken stupor to notice anything.

The rattle of garbled, undecipherable conversations everywhere. Gravity has betrayed this guy who wavers around dangerously before sweeping all the glassware on the shelves down to the floor. Well, you should understand, always understand. There can be no party without someone fucking it totally up. Everyone is trying to separate these two guys before they kill each other. Your mother's 56-year old friend is feeling all amorous, the sickening sweet perfume mixed with that unmistakable odour of a woman in heat, and tries to make a pass on this 20-year old tall guy. Her bald, potbellied husband lies passed out on sofa, drool dripping all over his face. Girls cry and scream hysterically to their boyfriends, pouring out all their pent-up bitterness and rage that's grown inside for months, their make-up a black, smudged blur all over their faces, while your best friend and your girlfriend have passionate sex in your bedroom.

Someone throws up all over your valuable Persian carpet. There can be no party without that piquant smell of vomit lingering in the air. The sweltering heat and alcohol has softened up everyone's brains, making them collapse hysterically or ready to jump to each others' throats. Everywhere there are drunken confessions, and the relieving of hearts. "I'm so lonely, boo-hoo." "No-one loves me, boo-hoo." Come on, pour all your emotional dirt over me, drench me in it, rub it all over my face, fill me with nausea and fear; because that's exactly what I'm here for.

Someone's face is bleeding badly, stitches are probably needed, but he just rambles on all oblivious. Someone tries to jump out of the window. Blond-haired rastas with weary eyes are rolling joints on livingroom's glass table while grime, dubstep and crunk blare on in stereo. Irie, mon. Lush. You could cut the air with a knife. Someone's popping Temazepams like they were candy. Someone's got their eyes large as plates. Someone shoots up heroin in the bathroom, leaving blood stains all over the towels. Better to put your rubber gloves on before touching any of those. Someone's lying on the floor, turning all blue with no pulse feeling.

Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy fuckin' birthday to me.