Anger: Probably the feeling you get when you startle yourself awake to blinding light that super dilates the pupils, making you endure a ten minute LSD trip demo before you realise the alarm clock's luminous green LED is reading 3AM. . .a clock that never seems to shut up, forever beeping no matter how many times you tap it. Wait a minute (OK, 2.59 AM if you insist). . .you have never owned a bedside alarm clock, let alone one with an LED. Anger because you realise that this is not your comfort zone, not the four by six that your sleeping self usually calls home. Anger from within your nose which crackles painfully from the inside like the AK-47s of the Taliban plus an unforgiving sore throat, throbbing and coarse as if it was subject to early morning fellatio dispensed by an unknown source of perverted sexual anger. Yes, anger because somewhere in the deepest annals of your mind, you suspect that you have been sexually violated. An unwilling source of raw data for a Kinsey type report. . .
Impatience: Probably the one thing on the mind of whoever stripped you naked and left you as if for dead. , hastily throwing a mosquito net around you and not for one second thinking that the anopheles also appreciates full frontal male nudity. . . Impatience of your bladder that seemed to have been waiting for your eyes to open to demand to be relieved of what feels like a year's supply of urea. Impatience to play Sherlock Holmes with your surrounding . .to find evidence of your worst fears. . .no blood stains on the silky pure white sheets strewn all over . .nothing on the pure white walls. . .pure white fluffy slip-ons on a pure white floor. . .
Fear: The one thing you tried to avoid, the elephant in the room with white camouflage. You can hear the steady approach of Fear, the plonking of her Manolo Blahnik high heels from a not so distant but unknown location. Sheer, stark naked fear. . .probably as stark naked as your black ass. Then it hits you. How come everything around you is sparkling white except your black ass? Its some racist shit, ain't it?! A sick perverted remake of Eli Roth's Hostel ...your mind quickly foreshadows a last scene before the end credits - your body chopped up with pathologist precision by the satisfied figure of Tom Cholmondely, licking your blood off an assortment of surgical blades and behind him, a string quartet accompanying an fat operetta belting out an ominous aria on her 8th octave and holding you dismembered dick in her hands as if its a microphone. .the blood from it dripping on to her bare feet. HOLY CRAP!!!
PANIC: Panic as the plonk plonk of them stilleto heels are closer than ever before. The initial urge to take a piss is now totally overcome by the sudden rush of blood to your member which now throbs erect, alert and at a proud 8 inches, faces the door like one would do to a weapon, a loaded gun, when anticipating intrusion from the outside...
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
You try to get up despite an undescribable pain at the lower back but alas, your left hand had been tied to the bed all this time!
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
In an adrenalin fuelled frenzy, you tug your restricted arm. Bitch, let me go!
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
HYSTERIA: You finally detach yourself from whatever was holding you and the momentum of freedom rolls you over to land on the cold white tiles on the floor. Your left arm is profusely bleed. . .grafitting the goddamn floor as a matter of fact. . .the jet of blood spraying out a series of hieroglyphic characters and Chinese motifs! Before you can analyze your terror levels, the door bursts open!!!
DISTURBIA: A coloured woman, in a tiara and a clingy white evening gown (in different circumstances you would have considered her quite the sex bomb) rushes in and stops in her tracks, her facial expression transforming to that of morbid shock, as if she's seen a ghost. Eyes transfixed on the loose cannon between your legs. Trying to make feeble steps towards you then quickly retreating, as if its one of those Mexican telenovella scenes where the heroine is choosing between two lovers. Then it hits you that, for the past 20 seconds or so, you have been screaming at the top of your lungs: "BITCH, GET AWAY FROM ME! DON'T COME ANY CLOSER OR I'LL BREAK THAT NECK!!!" and then finally succumbing to the fact that she's probably the singer who wants your (still erect) genital organ to belt out some songs with... meaning Cholmondely will soon arrive with a power saw, surgical blades and a packet of Femiplan male condoms to finish what Lord knows who started...
"STAY AWAY FROM ME. . .please. . .I don't want to die, pleeeease let me go. . . .BITCH!!! BITCH, I SWEAR IMMA KILL YOU IF YOU MAKE ONE MORE STEP!"
Your mouth is foaming. . .you are quickly loosing blood and that thing that stood at a firm 8 inches collapses against your thigh to a flaccid 5. Vision is getting blurrier by the second...You cannot hear your own voice but your tense vocal chords is sufficient evidence of the fact that you are still screaming. Finally your world ebbs into a solid and silent blackness. . .
REALITY?: You come to after what seemed like half a second. You're in what seems like a hospital bed. .Lying on your side, your left arm on a drip. An ECG machine beeps ocassionally next to the bed. You turn upright. A light skinned nurse (in different circumstances you'd find her very pretty) is by your side, regarding you with amusement unsuccessfully clothed with clinical detatchment.
"Good, I see you're awake now", she says.
Obviously bewildered, you ask what happened to you and why you're in hospital.
"You had. . .an accident and went into a short comma. Dr. Patel will be here soon to tell you more."
She walks away briskly towards the door, her shoes making a resonating sound:
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
Hmm that sounds very familiar doesn't it. . . The déjà vu of that bitch! You call out to the nurse before she disappears through the door. "Hey, do I know you from somewhere? You look somehow familiar. Plus. . .forgive me if I come off as offensive. . .but how you walk as well!"
She stops in her tracks, turns around and gives you the That-line-wont-work-on-me look and then walks through the door.
Plonk! Plonk! Plo-
Her head peeps into the room. She gives you a sly wink.
"Now that I think about it, maybe we've met!"
Your mind wanders off to the thoughts of how much you'd had to drink and if it was really you that had popped the ecstasy pills at the gents. . .and if it was really you who was driving on the wrong lane out of the CBD and towards Nakuru with six drunk individuals cheering you on at the back seat.
The perils of T.G.I.F. . .
Impatience: Probably the one thing on the mind of whoever stripped you naked and left you as if for dead. , hastily throwing a mosquito net around you and not for one second thinking that the anopheles also appreciates full frontal male nudity. . . Impatience of your bladder that seemed to have been waiting for your eyes to open to demand to be relieved of what feels like a year's supply of urea. Impatience to play Sherlock Holmes with your surrounding . .to find evidence of your worst fears. . .no blood stains on the silky pure white sheets strewn all over . .nothing on the pure white walls. . .pure white fluffy slip-ons on a pure white floor. . .
Fear: The one thing you tried to avoid, the elephant in the room with white camouflage. You can hear the steady approach of Fear, the plonking of her Manolo Blahnik high heels from a not so distant but unknown location. Sheer, stark naked fear. . .probably as stark naked as your black ass. Then it hits you. How come everything around you is sparkling white except your black ass? Its some racist shit, ain't it?! A sick perverted remake of Eli Roth's Hostel ...your mind quickly foreshadows a last scene before the end credits - your body chopped up with pathologist precision by the satisfied figure of Tom Cholmondely, licking your blood off an assortment of surgical blades and behind him, a string quartet accompanying an fat operetta belting out an ominous aria on her 8th octave and holding you dismembered dick in her hands as if its a microphone. .the blood from it dripping on to her bare feet. HOLY CRAP!!!
PANIC: Panic as the plonk plonk of them stilleto heels are closer than ever before. The initial urge to take a piss is now totally overcome by the sudden rush of blood to your member which now throbs erect, alert and at a proud 8 inches, faces the door like one would do to a weapon, a loaded gun, when anticipating intrusion from the outside...
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
You try to get up despite an undescribable pain at the lower back but alas, your left hand had been tied to the bed all this time!
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
In an adrenalin fuelled frenzy, you tug your restricted arm. Bitch, let me go!
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
HYSTERIA: You finally detach yourself from whatever was holding you and the momentum of freedom rolls you over to land on the cold white tiles on the floor. Your left arm is profusely bleed. . .grafitting the goddamn floor as a matter of fact. . .the jet of blood spraying out a series of hieroglyphic characters and Chinese motifs! Before you can analyze your terror levels, the door bursts open!!!
DISTURBIA: A coloured woman, in a tiara and a clingy white evening gown (in different circumstances you would have considered her quite the sex bomb) rushes in and stops in her tracks, her facial expression transforming to that of morbid shock, as if she's seen a ghost. Eyes transfixed on the loose cannon between your legs. Trying to make feeble steps towards you then quickly retreating, as if its one of those Mexican telenovella scenes where the heroine is choosing between two lovers. Then it hits you that, for the past 20 seconds or so, you have been screaming at the top of your lungs: "BITCH, GET AWAY FROM ME! DON'T COME ANY CLOSER OR I'LL BREAK THAT NECK!!!" and then finally succumbing to the fact that she's probably the singer who wants your (still erect) genital organ to belt out some songs with... meaning Cholmondely will soon arrive with a power saw, surgical blades and a packet of Femiplan male condoms to finish what Lord knows who started...
"STAY AWAY FROM ME. . .please. . .I don't want to die, pleeeease let me go. . . .BITCH!!! BITCH, I SWEAR IMMA KILL YOU IF YOU MAKE ONE MORE STEP!"
Your mouth is foaming. . .you are quickly loosing blood and that thing that stood at a firm 8 inches collapses against your thigh to a flaccid 5. Vision is getting blurrier by the second...You cannot hear your own voice but your tense vocal chords is sufficient evidence of the fact that you are still screaming. Finally your world ebbs into a solid and silent blackness. . .
REALITY?: You come to after what seemed like half a second. You're in what seems like a hospital bed. .Lying on your side, your left arm on a drip. An ECG machine beeps ocassionally next to the bed. You turn upright. A light skinned nurse (in different circumstances you'd find her very pretty) is by your side, regarding you with amusement unsuccessfully clothed with clinical detatchment.
"Good, I see you're awake now", she says.
Obviously bewildered, you ask what happened to you and why you're in hospital.
"You had. . .an accident and went into a short comma. Dr. Patel will be here soon to tell you more."
She walks away briskly towards the door, her shoes making a resonating sound:
Plonk! Plonk! Plonk!
Hmm that sounds very familiar doesn't it. . . The déjà vu of that bitch! You call out to the nurse before she disappears through the door. "Hey, do I know you from somewhere? You look somehow familiar. Plus. . .forgive me if I come off as offensive. . .but how you walk as well!"
She stops in her tracks, turns around and gives you the That-line-wont-work-on-me look and then walks through the door.
Plonk! Plonk! Plo-
Her head peeps into the room. She gives you a sly wink.
"Now that I think about it, maybe we've met!"
Your mind wanders off to the thoughts of how much you'd had to drink and if it was really you that had popped the ecstasy pills at the gents. . .and if it was really you who was driving on the wrong lane out of the CBD and towards Nakuru with six drunk individuals cheering you on at the back seat.
The perils of T.G.I.F. . .
