It’s one of my Uncle’s birthday tomorrow, and I, fresh out of yet another run-in with Death last evening, had to feign normalcy and join the family in seeing him for what I would call the most laughable excuse for a birthday party ever.
It’s rather cute when a bunch of Middle Easterners break generations of tradition by celebrating something other than religious holidays, especially when it concerns the birth of someone who’s already had forty nine of such days to his name.
Allow me to paint you a picture.
My Uncle -yes, the birthday boy- was sprawled on the floor watching this Tamil flick that happened to be on, all the while oblivious to whatever the hell we had going on for his benefit- something which I genuinely suspect has very little to do with the fact that he is and has been for years now, hard of hearing.
My father was… without putting too fine a point on it, many, many shades away from being in the pink of health, so he was more than happy keeping to himself by reading the papers in the hopes that no one notices just how much thinner he’d gotten since the last time they’d seen him.
And if you’d thought the cousins would stay true to form and be the one saving grace, I suppose it’s time to re-evaluate. They, especially Dano, were still more than a little shaken up over the fact that one of our own had almost gotten two of us killed, one of whom is genuinely loved and the other, the most prominent member of the family. All I can say is… the finger-pointing game does not make for good social activity.
Even my grandmother, who’d usually be the one person we’d all look at and think “you know what, fuck all this unhappiness, she’s right here and smiling, and we owe it to her to be just as happy” was one small package of sullen. And her angst, I’ll have you know, is even more contagious than her smile.
No one was in a particularly joyous mood, except maybe for the more senior members of the female community such as my mother, aunts and the maid, all of whom had a gala of a time trading more than just recipes. It’s one thing I could respect about the maid if she didn’t annoy me as much as she did; the ability to inject life to a funeral. That girl can really, really talk.
Oh, and if you’re wondering, Combat did not grace the event with his presence, although I was informed it had nothing to do with the accident, which would mean he’s doing just fine. But more on that in a while, since I’m one open book tonight.
There you go, the gist of it.
Oh well.
At least the food was good.
*shrug*
For those of you ready to march to my shithole of a rented flat demanding an explanation as to why I haven’t informed you about the accident, let me just kindly bring to your attention that my middle finger is still intact and ready to flip you off. What people fail to realise sometimes that a lot of things are bigger than just them.
In this case, for example, it is not about how I didn’t tell you. It’s about how I almost fucking died and didn’t, and not for the first time this year. It’s about how I might still be too shaken up to speak about it to anyone other than Zif, who probably wouldn’t have heard about it as well until much, much later if Combat wasn’t involved, which he was.
I would go into the mechanics of what happened, but I’m too lazy and frankly, those who matter would know of it by now, except for Sean, who will be subjected to details when I see him tomorrow and Ranga, whose company I love too much to bother with such party-pooping issues.
Suffice it to say that Combat, myself, and the son of a bitch whose negligence almost cost us our lives are alright.
Although I must tell you… the first thought running through my mind when the accident itself was in motion was how someone who’d live life the way Combat has deserves not a death under such circumstances. I believe a person’s death should do justice to the way he’s lived, and no, an accident because some young shit is nothing but 94849482 pounds of stupid is just… not it.
And there’s always my dad, of course. I’ve spent my whole life being that one person who can safely say she’s kept him in a bubble; doing everything in my power to ensure nothing hurts him. All the while, experiencing every screech and bump, all I could really think of was how I’d be breaking my father’s heart and how he… just cannot handle losing his brother and his daughter at once. Especially not after how losing Loki broke him. No one should have to go through that six times in a lifetime.
Anyways.
The world is still moving. There’s money to earn. A’s to score. Asses to kick. Poison apples to throw out of the basket. Love to declare. Combat to fear.
And yes, it feels good to be alive. And this is, sadly, not the first time I’ve had to say this.
I’m thinking Zif is right- I DO have more lives than Garfield.
