Day 16: the party


“I am so tired of mirrors, pour me a glass of wine . . . “

Nelly Furtado/Hey Man

The Dawn of the Eid Holidays

10 PM

Dubai

Since I began writing MY LIFE IN 50 DAYS, it has become the thief of my nights, robbing me of the universal self that I was once.  I yielded inside its hardcore barbwired fence every single night, doodling through its muddy waters, locomoting through its pink and purple ventilating pipes, seeing things coming.  Living through my other selves and ultimately getting to know each and every one of them all over again.

I like it.  For the past 16 days, I went through defiance, judging my psyche and exhaustion, both physical and mental, that after each entry, once published, I crawl to bed, both happy and worn out.

Despite its ups and downs (Day 13: Erotica was such a swirl because I had to do it at different times of the day, thanks to my day job and other things like chores and facials), I feasted to its effervescense, knowing that I had done something.  Believe me, I wanted to stop doing this on its 4th day, as I was in the middle of my 2010 P and L projections which was already grueling, but I chose to be good to myself.  I gave myself a pat on the shoulder and said, “If getting fucked is hard enough, what more this?”  I decided to carry on.

Of course, when I saw my stats getting higher each day, knowing that people are actually reading (and reacting), I had to pat myself on the back even harder and said, “Carry on, whore.  Who would’ve thought?”

Tonight, on the other hand, I am attending a pre Christmas party.  I had second thoughts of not attending as I prejudged the elasticity of things to come, but I told myself, “WHY NOT?  I have not done any partying in a while.  It will be my gift to myself for being such a good boy for the last 16 days!”  Besides, everybody is out watching that puerile  movie called New Moon.  I will trek to my own version of new moons tonight.

The Party

I dragged my happy ass home at 4 in the morning from a pre Christmas party.  First of all, it was amazing how unseasonal the party was but it did well for me.  It was my first Christmas tree of the year and absolutely my first tequila in 2 weeks.  It was something new.

I knew the people who were there.  Most of them are my brother Mark’s former office mates from Citibank and it was a woozy catch up of things particularly on weight gains, break ups and basically life’s disgruntlement.  I went to the party with my one and only co-everything, Catherine, who wore 3 inches heels and a schoolgirl outfit.

It was noteworthy to say that parties do not amaze me as much it did years ago.  My prerequisite changed through the years I guess.  OR better yet, is it the end of an era?  When I was once the “it” factor and my friends were euphoric accomplices – whose water became vodka and whose bodies bailed out with the onset of exotic antidotes, marijuana and pathological lying – parties were always held in the seventh heaven.  BACK IN THE 90s, when the sordid homage to good fun was drinking cheap alcohol over usapang barbero or classic fabricated stories, there was always this suspension of disbelief that reenacted in itself.  A bridge over troubled water episode of teenage hurt balled in frenzied litanies over Guns n Roses and alternately, Anita Baker.

Over the years, the yuppie years, parties became a tin can of house music or bartendered cluster of fictionalized tales and over the top equivocations of emotional blockages. Of oourse, it was essential to bring home the human bacon at the end of the night.  Breakfast was even more delectable with a party residue called one night stand.  Or two nights depending on who is fucking who.  The dance clubs were empirical asylums of our lost souls and fidgeting collegiate minds.

In my 30s now and naturally annoyed with the club scene, I submitted to house parties and viscerous pubs because in more ways than one, as you go along, your heart desires for the intimate.  The real.  The more tolerable and I guess, the less toxic.  It all comes down with getting older I guess.  Life remains to be a wildfire of sinewy alcohol induced happenings that the physical state eventually clamor for spiritual communion.  The dizzying move to get closer to the self and the people surrounding the self.

Why do I go to parties ever so often anyway?

Tonight, I was giving myself a break after 16 days of working and writing nonstop, but here is a thought:  I party to get lost. For a time.

It recreates you instantaneously but most importantly, it connects you to your alliances.

Of course you would not mind a gossip or two

and

accidental flirations.

Happy Eid holidays everyone !!!  Party on !!!

. . . and remember to bring your fireworks, OK?

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