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| Sunday, October 12, 2008 |
| Californian dreams |
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. Accompanied by increasing responsibilities - wurk wurk - a passable social life, the USMLE – yes, THAT monkey on my back – parts 1 AND 2 – I’m currently typing this in LA – wow that’s a lot of –‘s – structured thought is over rated anyway – and just the all-around natural deaths of the IMU blogosphere, which, I admit, is one of the reasons why I started writing in the first place (gasp more interruptions in thought flow can anyone say hypomania?) is also my old-age induced loss of self-promoting, self-indulging libido.
Wak wak wak
The desire to be funny and to entertain is as limp as the desire to… er yeah.
Dying buds.
Enough complaining.
I rode my uncle’s bike to Huntington Beach the other day, with full intentions of finding a cozy beach side café, ordering some good ol’ Californian orange juice, and study my brains out for usmle step 2 cs.
 my l33t helmet
It was a pleasant enough ride, 45 minutes long, but by the half-hour mark, my butt was hurting like the dickens. Dickens that hurt a lot. Sparing the graphic details, I basically could not sit. On anything. Short of a cooling yet warm sitz bath. So it was with great relief that I saw the ocean after 45 minutes. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. Stretches of fine golden sand as far as the eye could see. Clear blue waters churned by loud, crashing surf. Volleyball nets and beach umbrellas dotted the sand like so much after-rain-fungi growth. Quaint little cafés spaced the beach.
One problem.
  
The place was deserted. Not a single surfer chick in sight. Visions of Jessica Alba in blue crush evaporated like spittle on the hot Californian sidewalk. Poof, and not the tight pink shirt-ruffles-and-brown-ball-hugging-leather-pants-wearing kind.
No surfer chicks I can deal with. Empty beaches I can tolerate. *poof poof*
But even the cafés were not open. Every single one. Disillusioned and in an aching-derriere-and-californian-sun-dehydration-induced delirium, I cycled aimlessly down the beach, hoping to find a stall, a hot dog stand, a juice vendor, a homeless bum willing to share a scavenged burger, anything.
Nothing.
*poof poof poof*
Thirst overcoming me, hallucinations beginning to taunt me, I explored the only option left to me. I drank water from a toilet bowl.
NO LAR.
That diarrhea-defying, amoebiasis-avoiding feat remains the sole possession of one Dr Chacko. Penang mari.
I found a water fountain, drank a few thirsty gulps, clenched my aching butt cheeks, got back on the bicycle, and headed back to my uncle’s house.
 for some odd reason there's a power plant right next to the beach. the simpsons theme song started playing in my mind. i swear i saw a fish with 3 eyes.
20 hungry, torturous minutes later I found a sandwich bar (Cindy’s sandwiches). I ate probably the best-tasting roast beef sandwich I have ever had. Amidst the gay waiter’s whines –
GW - the phone’s ringing, Cindy. Can I answer it? No? why not? Lemme answer itttttttttttttt lemme lemme lemmeeeeeeeeeeeee awwwww you never let me do anything
Cindy - “go wash your hands”
Me - LOL
– I mulled over the day’s adventure.
You know those dumb blonds you see in teen movies? They really ARE like that. I stopped at a traffic light with a couple of blond, giant sun-glassed girls with pink bicycles, one even had a Chihuahua in her front basket. I frigging kid you not. Both had ridiculously short skirts on (even if they weren’t cycling, can you say chao kong?), obnoxiously loud, and their dialogue went something like this –
“so I was like, drunk right, and she wanted to like, punch me out, right, so Jaime grabbed me and like, pulled her back and I was like, Jaime this isn’t your business cause Jaime can’t fight right, cause Jaime’s, like, pregnant right”
“no way! Jaime’s pregnant? With that dude’s baby?”
“yeah”
“is she gonna keep it?”
“like, she’s got no choice, right”
“why not?”
“she’s had, like, 4 abortions already, if she has another one she, like, won’t be able to have babies ever”
“no way!”
The light turned green and I cycled off, butt still dickening away (that sounded wrong) but face smirking away. Movies do tell the truth every now and then. Makes you wonder. Maybe rich heirs who dress up like giant bats really do exist.
Why so serious? |
posted by theycallmecruel @ 3:56 PM  |
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wheeeeeeeeeee
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