Leaving Sakana, the crow and pigeon dance around the grill on the magical slice of pizza. They don’t move, but silently appreciate all the beautiful food on the grill. There are patatas bravas, oozing in a combination of mayo and ketchup, spicy yet savory paella de mariscos, and croquetas. The lemon squirted on the salty rice hiding the prawns and mussels, but beautifully admired while untouched. Cholesterol isn’t a problem here. A delicious piece of bread slithers through the bridge carrying a salmon. The fish tantalizes the birds and the inner sharks come through as the tapa is devoured.
The magical slice of pizza dissipates and the birds look at one another frantically hoping that the magical slice of pizza will return. They fly through the polluted clouds to Reem Al Bawadi for Kafta combination. They quickly peck their beaks at the diced cucumbers and tomatoes while shoveling the hummus and moutabbal into the pita. They look into each others eyes, red and intoxicated, and elsewhere ignorant to the kibbeh until it also is stabbed at. They smoke shisha while releasing fumes of regret. They never had the opportunity to do it on the perch on the factory, so will have to learn the birds and the bees eventually. After all succulent Kaftas are eliminated, Kafka decided that a burger they missed out on the flying carpet would be the next destination. No A-maze-((m(en)d))) in this maze and off they flew.
The turbulent winds shredded their feathers, reminding them of their births, but so far from the purest states. They reached the next destination on this jigsaw puzzle and decided to match a few cervezas with a second order of brave po-tah-toes. One wasn’t enough, so they stuffed the appetizers in their beaks without paying attention to the cheese smeared across their chins. The cervezas diluted this capacity.
Liquid Courage allowed them to let the woeful sludge drip out of their beaks.
Kafka: You’re a pig. I can get such a hotter pigeon than you. You should go back to your perch you ho.
Paloma: Yeah as if, why don’t you flap back in your hole. Eat your own worm you douche.
Kafka: Yeah the early bird gets it, you’re constantly late for our dates
Paloma: We’re in the same flock, but glad I’ve real-eyes how point-less you are in
the real world. I’d rather meet an eagle that can afford some better vino and can show me the magical slice of pizza. He likely would take care of his coat like a stone GOAT.
Kafka: Yeah modalities aside, fuck you, whatever.
The birds flapped their wings. They needed some time apart. The crow went back to Reem Al Bawadi, his place of peace. In pieces his heart crumbled, but the arteries were filled with all the saturated sauce of the shawarma and the fries. He picked and gritted at the salad, but was much more satisfied with the comfort of the saturation. Saturated, the grande puerco had put on 10 pounds in the past month.
Kafka remembered the words of Heisenberg. He needed to practice gratitude. He needed to let go of the history, solve the mystery in order to unwrap the later present tomorrow. Each day was a massive struggle for Kafka to finish his HW. Teaching Meaning, Form, Pronunciation was no big deal. After sacrificing 2000 reasons for the continuation of his program his flock was mas o menos graded on completion. He wondered if the program was actually intensive, or if his flock simply said so to preserve the credibility of the unicameral bridge of the queen’s land.
The currency sacrificed, and the currency lost wishing he could ride on that magical slice of pizza one more time. He remembered himself in Manami. He remembered as she cradled him in her toned and sexy, swimming Japanese arms and how she told him something he’ll never for-get but sadly could never apply.
“I love you Sherif. I will always be here for you. I won’t leave you, but you need to be more confident in yourself. I can’t make you do that.” -Aomame (they have the same first name if you’ve read 1Q84, like is this really a fucking coincidence??)
He wishes she could for-give him, but out of the present he doesn’t deserve any unmerited presents. Kafka remained ignorant to the grapes sacrifices, and unappreciative, continued slurping their juices. The magical slice of pizza lost in sight, but always a part of him. It could always be manifested should he unravel the gift, but the mystery was all he focused on, anxious, and indifferent to the miracles brewing in between the ribbons.
He also remembered what Michelle told him throughout their time together:
“My diet starts tomorrow” -Michelle
He had always loved the quote. Often times on their magical slice of pizza while teasing each others ribbons and talking minutely of the mundane they were in the present and always smiling. She had taken the form of Manami. Not as profound and not as deep into each other they went, but in the extending past perfect she had always been a gift.
Kafka stared into the bottom of the glass wondering if his second balance would be overdrawn. He had spent $600 on arranging his Budapest trip, and $2600 on food, drink, shisha, and other forms of delusional happiness while on his CELTA program. A certified degenerate now shown on another useless piece of paper he will graduate on Friday. Unoriented and real-eyes directing him to the east orient, he hopes he can start a new diet tomorrow like Michelle always told him. He slowly sipped the wine because it would be his last for a while and wanted to be in-joy while showing love and respect to the grapes.
The diet consists of the following:
- Starting a gratitude journal (going to a carpeteria and buying a cool Barcelona themed one)
- Slowly chipping away at his raging indignation
- Using the $1500 his enabling mother will send him on groceries instead of eating out 2 meals+/ day
- Reading fiction for inspiration everyday
- Appreciating his cave instead of needing to be inside of the forest listening to the external noise
- Going back to his mother’s cave and making the most of it while during ACL reconstruction and internal manifestation
- Emerging NOW on the Magical Slice of Pizza
- Reducing time spent off the Magical Slice of Pizza
- Moderating every-thing, so it doesn’t have to become no-thing
- Orienting himself in the orient– Japan– and eventually writing a novel Haruki Murakami would be proud of– poco a poco it will get there.
I truly have slipped off my magical slice of pizza. My diet, once an inspiration, has become an abomination, and I’ve truly been punting money off left and right. I’m extremely disappointed in myself, but achieved the ridiculously easy goal of getting my silly, little CELTA certification.
I likely won’t be able to stay in Barcelona due to the VISA prejudice and inability to stay to freelance since only 90/180 days can be spent here, so will return to Vegas unless offered a job in the next two weeks, and figure out how to get to Japan or Vietnam. I will wake up tomorrow– reborn– no matter how badly I want to deny it. I truly need to break the cycle or I will hit rock bottom, or worse, put myself in a situation where I’ll injure my knee again. This is my warning to myself. I need to start making changes, or I’ll go right back to square one.
To all my followers thank you so much for the support along the way and I will do my best to make myself proud. Yes, I choose to say myself there instead of you, because I am ultimately the creator, most important target audience, and actors in my inner and external movie I project.
If we slip off to cat town its never too late to hop back on the magical slice of pizza! Wish me luck!