It was in an Irish pub that I found myself alone, reeling from a strange night, with a Japanese chef’s knife in my hands. The walls were covered in graffiti SHE WOULD DO SOMETHING SO BEYOND HER LIMITS THAT SHE WOULD NEVER UNDERSTAND IT, a barking dog was irritating the inside my spine, and I was almost ready to shoot someone in the back of their head, except I didn’t have a gun. At the bar, I asked the bartender to give me a whole onion and a pint of beer. The bartender didn’t fucking care why I had such a strange request, and only said that the onion would cost extra. I didn’t fucking care either.
That night, in place of someone’s head, I cut an onion, and cried. Then I drank three pints of beer and remembered Jack and Rose dancing before the Titanic sank.
It was Clarice who wrote as graffiti on these damaged walls that as long as I have myself I won’t be alone.
Ms. Hyde is the tantric and trashy side of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, Bombay sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words.
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