A Dalliance With The Unknown: Arkansas Blues

I met Dalia on Sunday night. Goth chick high on MGH and singing about Bumpo Carnation. We talked. We drank. We slept. We fought. We tore each other's eyes out. Another bad fling in a string of bad flings since I got to Arkansas. The cat reappeared on Tuesday morning. I was nursing a bruised eye (not to mention a bruised ego) and the cat gave me the look. I'd recognize the look anywhere. It's the kind of look that your parents gave you if they found out that you were more interested in girls than in your schoolwork! The cat gave me that look. If it could speak, it'd probably be saying something like this: I sent you on a spiritual quest and you got hooked up with a Goth chick?

I sat there ashamed of myself. Not because of the Goth chick. She was pretty hot. She knew all the Bumpo Carnation songs, Poppy Z. Brite novels and she was high on MGH. It's not everyday that you get all those elements in one leather-bound package marked with black mascara! Anyway, the cat beckoned me to follow it again. I got up from the bed (actually it was Dalia's bed but I've no idea where she was after last night's bout). Pushed aside the used condoms and old newspapers. Accidentally stepped on a Bumpo Carnation CD cover and shattered it (Dalia will kill me for this), pulled up my old pair of jeans and followed the mysterious cat out of the stinking apartment.

I cursed under my breath. Why am I still following the damn cat? I should be getting home. I've got no money, no phone, nothing. Perhaps I'm too tired to think. Dalia was like a vampiress sucking the life out of me. La Tey warned me about Goth chicks the last time. He was at a Neil Gaiman signing in Borders, Singapore. I told him to keep a lookout for Goth chicks. He picked up two Gaiman books and stood in line. But the Goth chicks all looked like failed plastic surgery victims. In fact, he could've sworn that some of them were last seen in the Mos Eisley Cantina. Maybe that was why he turned to Thai and Spanish chicks after that. As for me, the last thing I remember was walking out the subway with the art-exhibition. Standing outside the Hegre Studio, a Swedish girl in furs (and wearing a Santarina hat) walked past and asked if I was an artist. I nodded (an outright lie, I know - but you'll nod too if you'd seen the Swedish Santarina!) We started chatting and very soon it was pretty obvious that she modelled for Hegre Studio. She introduced me to another fellow model - Dalia. The rest, as they said, was history.

That's the story of my life - premature ejaculations, pillow-fights and silent-breakups. Broken CD cases and used condoms. Another apartment left behind. Another affair to haunt me the rest of my days. Brian May was right - "Too Much Love Will Kill You - In The End". So I'm back where I started. Stupidly following a cat around Arkansas. I want to go home.

To be continued...