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Untitled 03

It was 4 in the afternoon on the first day of Ramadan. And she’s already drunk.

She’ll take her buzz wherever she can. Gossip websites are her favourite, but when she’s too lazy to read, she’ll just pop a beer (or five) and get on with whatever she’s on to, usually just staring into open space while imaging the downfall of the latest person to steal her thunder or the life she could never have. Nothing beats self-inflicted deprecation so early into the night.

She’s crazy and feeling, yet remaining lethargic for fear of overexposure. For the feeling she harbours is unacceptable by social norms, and more so, too grotesque that even she herself vomits in the inside so inexplicably at the very thought of it. She’s in love.

Never had she acquired the flair for the dramatics, but today, of all days, she is eroded by the very emotions that she tried to drown, with beer, with cheap gossip and with every bit of sense left existing in her sordid little mind.

Meryl Streep was crying on the tube when she too found herself in tears. She longed for something more expensive, sophisticated, and mature than beer.

But, alas, she found none.

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