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Complacency, pt. I

What a day! What a lovely day!

Some days you develop a nagging intuition that a particular day was destined to be epic, storied, and one to treasure to heart only to end up being just the total opposite. Saturday was one of these days.

A couple of days prior to this monumental disappointment, I had inquired of Iceland's condition through Facebook after he disappeared without a trace on our last night out to Shoreditch.

He responded with, "I was running for half an hour totalky [sic] drunk." He was trying to catch the last train to Watford.

To tell the truth, he was quite the troublesome sod that night. All the women in our group were bothered by his unkindly behaviour; Eva, Monica, Bruna, Erica, Susana, and another Brazilian whose name escapes me (probably rhymes with Ferefa or Fafala or Falala, whatever other common Portuguese-sounding name derivative it was), were somewhat livid. Me and Eva happen to be wiggling our twerkers (struggle as I might) when Iceland would forcefully rub his pale banana all over Monica's backside. She was much to her dismay, since, if I am not mistaken, she and another guy named Nafi from Bangladesh were dating. He just happens to be swimming around the peripheries of my vision when I saw Iceland boomed his tralala upon the woman. To be fair, he was quite persistent and honest to me about his intention to bone her. Told me blankly to my face when left on our own. He was begging me to dance in between them both so as to entice her to want to dance with him instead. As if. And when his not-so-subtle advances got denied, surreptitiously to him, he went about bothering other women in the place even those beyond his paygrade until the night died itself down.

I had to admit, despite showcasing us all with his flawed shamelessness, that his efforts were commendable.

Days later, after I had washed away all the sins of that night, he then informed me through Facebook of his plan to take his French bird Annabelle (one whom he had been bad-mouthing from the day we met) out of town for a road trip. They had three available seats. After the debacle with the women on that particular night, I would have thought that they were the last persons I expected seeing. Erica, however, did, who accompanied her newly-arrived brother to go about sightseeing. This woman is borne of nightmares; the epitome of torture, agony, madness, despair, sadism, what have you; the flag-bearer of the struggles that have been unleased upon me. A woman almost impossible to befriend; amiable but thoroughly unpleasant and highly volatile. She would claw someone's face and feel no remorse about it. All for making a practical joke. She will smite you down with blank curses. Had I known that she would be there to glamorise the space with her undulating mood swings, I would not have made any promises to come and would have gladly stayed at home to procrastinate as usual. I had received a separate invitation with Augusto on another trip, might as well have entertained that, and would have gladly taken up on his offer had it not been so abrupt and costly.

Iceland was considering of going to Wales at first, and then spend a couple of nights there in a hostel or a bed-and-breakfast somewhere, which I had no funds to provide myself for, so I led him to my personal suggestions to bend away from spending. One that would hopefully be more cost-effective and adventurous as well. The weather was against us, however, and denied us of our whims, and severely limited us of our options.

"Oh yeah. A bit of hiking could be cool. I would like to find some peculiar, little villages and stuff, and an innkeeper that tells stories," Iceland said. "Or an old drunk who telks [sic] us about a monster."

I have no clue how this talk of monsters suddenly came about, but I bet that it had all to do with him being from Iceland. Just an instinctive guess. Obviously he's from Iceland, hence why I call him that, if that wasn't perfectly obvious. He is also very openly proud of his Vikingness. The lack of eyebrows may have been a giveaway. And are there not tales of trolls and giants and white walkers or whatnot over there? Or was that actually from some place else that was also Nordic? I honestly cannot tell or differentiate.

So we continued to discuss about our options, and you just absolutely cannot talk about options in England without having to discuss English weather. Lately the weather had graced us with its typical British unpredictability.

"But the forecast isn't so nice," he sighed. "if it's raining it might suck."

So I assured him, "It's good to be fine. Just bring rain clothing."

For awhile, that was that. I minded my own business as they went about theirs. Me and Augusto carried on with our negotiations. I honestly could not give the sod a guarantee. It would have been nothing but gallantry and expense, and so I sat and pouted, with lips dry and flaky, at  the comfort of my newly-prepped bed, sobbing at a dire loss.

Friday came, which was the eve of battle before we were meant to conquer Wales. I still had no penny to spare, and I would be damned if I could find a sufficient source of income when the moment of truth wiggles to my lap. Sometimes I just want to suffocate my pathetic self for being so fucking hopeless and retarded.

"Can you come to Watford early in the morning tomorrow?" Watford was where Iceland and his girlfriend Annabelle had lived. I cannot say for sure if I had been there, but I wouldn't want to know and find out. "Two days in hostels in Wales? Weather sucks though. Maybe Brighton instead? We can also just do a day trip."

Brighton would be the better option. There isn't really much there that is of substance, even though I have never been there despite numerous attempts to do so, so it's going to be extra cheap and I won't be damned to pay for more than a night when he proposed for a mere day trip. As much as I want a long and winding road trip, the opportunity just was not very understanding of my predicament. The last time I pinched myself to go to Brighton, I remember, was when Mioseon was still here in England in the uncomfort of my company. Such thoughts now make me want to defecate a sack of bricks.

It was a go. He had informed me before we broke off that night that he sent word to every single plebeian in their own private Whatsapp group. Bunch of knobheads, all are. I had felt an ominous dread overcome me since then, but unfortunately it was hard to pull back when I had already given my word. My word is absolute. As it should be.

"Meeting tomorrow at Euston!" he joyfully shared. I could almost taste the sincere enthusiasm off of his Icelandic bollocks. "At 9:30."

I do not trust time management, especially with these lot. Whenever these people discuss a particular time or any particular place, it is always bound to fuck up, somehow. Always. But I ignore this and honour the agreement anyway. Sad thing is: I was right. The fuckers were, in fact, an hour an half late.

His last words to me before we broke off was: "Erica and her brother will be coming with us." I replied with a simple "Great." and a huge bottle of salt in one hand and a razor blade on the other, hoping that the gods would just smite me from where I stood.

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