...It sucked.

Not because the joint was screwed. We just couldn't get any seats. And because I have a zit in my ear, makes me relatively impatient and a highly irritable. We weren't about to just stand around getting our feets soiled with imported sand. The eye candy did make for a less hasty exit though.

The joint was all good actually - a central dias which works out as a lounge area and probably a makeshift dance floor, overlooking (for god's sake) a freaking pool. Cushy chic deck beds were laid out on the beach coupled with brollies and vanilla coffee tables, beer tents, bikini babes, washboard abs hunks and the soft lush of the evening waves. It was all good. But not that enticing to make us stand and bore a hole in the unsuspecting tacky female with less than a cleavage as you stare at her whilst she slowly sips her sinewy alcoholic concoction.

As we were contemplating on a less subtle alternative, I realised that the years have really caught up on us. Even as we are heading towards a metrosexual age, where the clubs are popping out like zits, and wine and dine is the new poison, with folks heading out to get wasted and a broken hip. Nights like these, however, have left us hanging dry and the least to even consider an upbeat encore of our yesteryears where we'd head to every succulent joint that beckoned.

It sucks to be old and boring. And yeah, the zit in the ear sucks too.

All up for it with the guys this weekend. Delectable.

Out.

I thought the weather was rather drapery of late. And it did little to perk my mood.

Apart from the heavy downpour tributarating murky pools I'd have to muster in the morning, my thoughts never really drifted far from being less of a dishevelled fool.

It's been almost 2 weeks since. I recall the day when I first laid my eyes on what those words meant. A part of me struggled momentarily to comprehend what I had read. After a pause, I realised I had already begun to pick up the pieces.

Granted, I was making little progress in this facade I had come to call a "means to an end". Tying up loose bits. I avoided their cold stares. Their wrought questions. Of which the answers I'd reply would only equate to certainty. I ran the length of the moment, to the ends of my desperation, and realised it had started frayed since the beginning.

Did we fall short of something truly precious and unique? Why do I feel so prematurely misplaced? Misunderstood? Why have we shunned ourselves to this harsh extent?

When did we turn to such bitterness?