On the run


Suddenly I felt nausea come creeping. It is hard to say if it was the relentless volume of wine, champagne and liqueurs I, during the evening’s festivities, (because I was a fucking nervous wreck) had consumed faster than any alcoholic could have done. Or whether it was the upheaval my lifestyle had been exposed to two hours earlier. Apparently my body had difficulties handling both joy and frustration at the same time. It felt like everyone starred in the same direction, and it felt like that direction was me. They were probably waiting for a speech or a crappy love song, performed with enough love to melt every single pussy in this world. And it was my own entire fault.

        I had on that day, on that god damn day, devoted the rest of my life to something I barely knew what implied. Maybe I could have known, but I hadn’t paid attention, I hadn’t given a shit. I didn’t. I Just followed what seemed to be one of the many steps to overcome in the pursuit of… Yeah, what did I even pursuit? Happiness? Comfort? Regular sex every Wednesday in the same tedious position? Or was it just another cross on the to-do-list? Only one thing appeared clear in my mind in that moment. The image of my diary. The image of picking it up, seeing the words Monotony, conformity and mother-in-law’ written in a thick font on every single day. With a fucking permanent marker.

          And so I ran. I ran through the room with precisely placed tables covered with blank white tablecloths and Chinese porcelain. I ran past an astonished crowd of men with cognac glasses, dressed in suits and boredom, maybe questioning each other what I ran away from, but most likely considering if they should yell ‘screw it all’ to their plastic wives and join me. I ran out of the door, jumped over the fence and through gardens with perfectly mowed lawns, spoiled kids and shiny, freshly painted garden furniture for their stupid garden parties.

          The roads in the little suburb looked as endless and similar as always, but at least they were roads. At least they were not rows of shit diapers.