Little bits of nitbobs before I start.
This is the 31st of December, am I correct?
No, I can’t be.
Not the 31st, no. Can anyone actually put their head around that? Absurd. Ludicrous. More so than I have ever felt in the past few about-to-be years. Well the rain is beating hard and that always makes me feel more in tune with certain situations. But the surety of such a happening has crossed into the frightening zone, whereby I can no longer comprehend such speed. Honestly, the stuff that’s been digging holes into my awareness of the real world. Rapes, protests, Christmas, journalling, France, Instagram, Stephen King, then… School. Marvellous.
After a good Vinyasa 2 yoga session today, I hopped my way to the closest cinema (yes, that would have to be youth magnet Cathay Cineleisure) just to watch The Hobbit, the screening I am far too behind on. Somewhere in there the big-eyed, less than debonair fellow mentioned how time devours everything. You could say from a more morbid point of view how that is so painful yet true; it consumes every minute of our very being and existence. We are never spared in any state of our lives, wherever we are or whatever we may be doing.
Mind starved of some caffeine and protein, I settled down to have a solo lunch somewhere where I could oversee the hordes of angry bumper-to-bumper cars and savour the dim chill of splitter-and-pop raindrops.
See those little chocolate syrup worms at the bottom? On the menu, this had a little star next to it saying ‘highly recommended’. To me, that immediately translated into ‘this will actually have the taste of proper coffee and mocha and not be overly sugar-ridden’. Alas, what am I to expect? Having too high an expectation simply leads to inevitable disappointment. I shut my mouth, ordered the thing, gave it a chance. A slight let down with the (predictable) lashings of sugar sugar sugar, but it was a mocha all the same. It even had a dollop of ice cream, and I craved a few cold scoops.
I saw the fried egg so of course I had to give it a go. Good portion size as well given the price tag. It’s a perfectly symmetrical sun softly calling my name, eventually killing me on the inside if I ignore its all-day pleas. The tragedy of this is that I actually like to taste the cheese and mushroom in a dish. The rustic tang of swiss, the rubbery cut of buttered shroom. Minus copious amounts of mayonnaise and a half-tasteless medium patty (I enjoy mine rare.)
Ah yes, and minus the top bun and fries, for I can’t care for excess stodge lying around and disrupting the purity of good flavour. Have mentioned this before, but all that bread is just asking to dilute the taste of a nice burger, no matter how well done. I came here previously to have this darling bowl:
Like most such green mountains, the saviour would normally be the dressing, a perfect balance of sweet and tang, and sometimes some spice. Good thing these guys added fatty unagi and cold cut tofu to provide bites well worth the adjectives wholesome and refreshing.
But that was salad day. Today was I-need-a-damn-burger-and-some-bulk day. Along with a dose of hairy-footed elves, goblins and a hobbit. Sad to think how it all ends here, right now, humbug in hand, a little mascara smudged on my lower lid.
They say a new year’s a new start with fresh resolutions and a will to keep them. Going back to my past with all my tested trials, I will hereby predict that some will be kept, and some will (might, I pray) be broken. I’ll just sit here with Stephen King for the time being, propelled back to the 1960s with Ford Sunliners and manual Cokes, and be comforted by the fact that 2013 may indeed be to my liking.
Perhaps time won’t leave a sour aftertaste in its wake, even after devouring everything.
Life turns on a dime.