In the Process

A conversation taken from Murakami's Norwegian Wood:

Toru: Don't you get tired of watching people having sex in porn movies? I mean, they just keep doing the same things again and again.
Midori: Of course they keep doing the same things. What else would they do? We all just keep doing the same things.

After taking part in a pseudo-debate (There just wasn't enough time for anyone to make a proper point, grr.) a few hours ago in class and listening to another one after that, I was left with the thought that really, there is absolutely no point in trying to argue anything. People will believe what they want to believe, and they will take advantage of whatever they find that supports their position. This, I think, is the proper nature of things. If you let other people boss you around and dictate what you ought to believe, then it's your problem.

In a very strange turn of events, some days before Christmas (It was all a hazy blur to me - you can't expect me to remember which event happened on which day.) I was at a party with my dad and other boring adults when, after spending a couple hours quietly reading the book I brought with me to pass the time, I realized that I was in fact quite drunk, for the very first time. There is an interesting story behind this. My dad had decided to bring a bottle of red wine for the host of the party, and when we got there we discovered that they already had several bottles going around for everyone. Since all the adults were engrossed in trying to outdo each other in the art of singing with the Videoke, no one except me paid the wine any serious attention. My dad offered me his glass, where he had barely taken a sip, when I was done with mine and by the time I finished his glass someone had already refilled mine. This cycle continued for some time and before I knew it, I had already consumed at least a full bottle's worth of three different varieties of dry red. Afterwards, we attended the wake of one of my dad's colleagues at a funeral parlor. We didn't stay long because, as I found out later, my dad was afraid I was going to throw up.

The reason I say that that was the first time I got drunk is that in my previous attempt, which I mentioned here earlier, I was never really sure. This time, though, when we got back home, I remember asking my dad what the definition of 'drunk' was after which he answered me in all seriousness, "You are."

I don't understand the reason why damaged teeth have to hurt so badly. A short while after I had an aching molar repaired a few days ago, while visiting my grandparents' house, my grandmother practically forced me to eat something. It was noon at the time, and she knew I hadn't had any breakfast, so I had to comply. Unfortunately, my dentist injected a bit more Novocaine than was needed, so I had to make do with my cheek, part of my chin, and half of my tongue feeling like blobs of jelly. Needless to say, the situation was a bit awkward. Still, I remember thinking that my little inconveniences are nothing compared to, say, being forced to carry buckets of slushy human and animal excrement on your back while climbing a steep mountain road in the process of being re-educated by the Communist regime in China. Now that would have been a real bummer.

I've recently decided to stop writing here for a while. I don't know for how long, as I've never written very regularly in the first place, and I don't even know exactly why. All I know is that I'm ready to jump from one reality into another. And I can't bother giving anyone any explanations.

In the meantime, I leave you, my readers (assuming you exist) with this beautiful Nocturne by Frederic Chopin in the background. Until I return, then.