Letters to M
From 2007 and 2008. Excerpts from mails to a then close friend, M.
I don’t remember why I was so upset at the party, but it preceded the drink. I only drank to relieve the tension. Unfortunately, it loosed a flood of tears.
I was tired yesterday, and ill, and hadn’t the slightest desire to “go clubbing”. Having fun, they called it. I don’t understand why ‘fun’ must always consist of dressing up and going to an ill-lit place to booze and riot.
In addition, and I’m ashamed to admit this- I always feel shabby and incongruous at these blitzy affairs. My glasses, my tiny feet that won’t support heels, my restless hair. I never quite had the shimmer the other girls did. And I never seemed to dress right for a party — the smug little dresses and the sheet-like hair — I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why I go.
As expected, I hated it. Everything about it. The strutting and preening; the dim-witted snobbery; the fact that Di, sitting by me, was pouring her hot, drunk breath all over my neck and making dull remarks. Girls, drunk, throwing their bare, skinny arms around each other with false affection; boys, pawing at the girls, with a sort of tepid lust.
Dundee greeted me with a hug, as I entered. I didn’t respond. He asked me to dance and I politely refused — the convulsing dance floor was the last thing I needed.
Why do I go, just to sit and glower in a corner? Maybe I’m just weak and needy.
Spoke to TS, today. She seemed appropriately apologetic. Not that it means anything. She’s probably a veteran at this sort of thing. I, of course, nobly forgave her and kindly warned her of the groundswell of negative sentiment awaiting her return.
Today was an excellent day. Zipped about town on MI’s Scooty- me, SWA and the indomitable MI.
At first, I was seated on the little fragment of seat in front of Mi, who was driving.
I felt like a wide-eyed toddler planted on the foyer space between a gushing stream of traffic, and his father. My head got in the way, after a bit and blocked MI’s view, and we rammed into an auto. So I was unceremoniously hauled back, sandwiched between MI and SWA.
I dozed off, at some point during the ride, swayed madly, and nearly fell into an abyss of wildly churning wheels.
There was a gay couple at the Archie’s store. One was dressed in a transparent white top and pedal pushers (with a polka-dotted G-string underneath). The other was wearing a little black tube top, that said ‘I like chicks, and I like mine hot’.
We piled back on the Scooty, and rode back to law school, a rowdy, middle-class family on their most precious asset: that shiny little Scooty.
- I indulge in excess. Namely alcohol. I then slip into a mild, pleasantly inebriated mood and poke gently at the stars
- I cannot keep my back straight. I have an unseemly spinal head-bone lodged in my upper back.
- TD and GJ ATTACK each other during the short breaks. Even during class, beneath a shawl. It’s like a mob under that shawl.
- The weather pricks.
- My roommate is studying. In the present tense. As I type, even. It disturbs me. I go.
Buttercup flounces about, clothing the world with her bright dupattas. She also wears trippy earrings and has a large, heaving bosom.
I want one, too.
I miss you, but we have stopped being friends for longer than I’ve been writing you these missives. I have to stop. I loved you, in the way I’ve always loved people — a relentless, petitioning kind of love that really lacks zip.