again

warning: you need to be Pakistani to understand the cultural issues being referred to in this post

I’ve been thinking strange all week. I don’t know why.

Currently, 6:16 am, my voice sounds like phatta hua speaker. I’ve spent the night yelling over the music begging my friends to go bloody home because damn, it was an hour long drive back and shit I needed to get home before fajr. Not because I had a deadline or anything, because I wanted to get bloody home before fajr. My parents would be disappointed in the choices I make if I chose to party till then.
On the fourth missed call from my mother (the time it took for me to realize that my phone was ringing, and to then get to distance where I could hear something took four calls). As I dodged sweaty drunken people, avoided patches with sketchy people hanging out in them, stayed clear of a man and a woman who really could not be described as anything other than a hooker, I felt like I was fifteen and I was doing something bad.
When I said hello, I heard my own voice for the first time that night. thats when I found out sounded like a phatta hua speaker. I croaked out a hello, confirmed that I was alive and well, and not raped, kidnapped or being held hostage, and was on my way home from the country club.
The shame propelled me to beg my friends once again to get the hell home, but it was too late, the Absolut was gone, their high was true, and their natural selfishness shone through. Serves me right.
It was a night of dodging drunken acquaintances from school, of warm coke when starving for cold water, of trying on new capris for the first time and realizing they don’t really look nice after hours of dancing, wearing shoes made by satan, and having my hair RUINED by the wall of humidity that defines this city by the sea. It was a night of beautiful moonrise on a brilliant golf course, of an equally brilliant sunrise, of wind blowing sweaty bangs on a break on the roof, of falling in love with a kitten saved from being run over by an armored security truck.
It was a night of finding strangers in good friends, of finding good friends in strangers.

I don’t know why he invited me to this shindig. I think it’s because I’m convenient, because I fit some criteria on his checklist of people to know and that even if he doesn’t feel crap for me he’ll pursue me because there is a severe lack of normal women to hang out with in this city.
Why did I take up his invitation? Why did I spend the night dodging vodka fumes from a mouth too close, from literally dancing out of reach of grabby hands? Maybe because sometimes, it doesn’t matter who it is, anyone will do. (like i said, i've been thinking strange lately)

having written out in black and white this reason for my going to this thing, i can't believe i was capable of that. what a terribly Unpleasant discovery to this strange side to myself.

But i guess its ok, the spell is broken, I’m back to thinking like myself now. I’m six hours too late, but I’m glad I’ve eventually made my way back to being myself.

Welcome back bitch, I’ve missed you.