01
Oct
13

Karan Patel’s Short Story: A Filthy Kitchen

A FILTHY KITCHEN – Written by KP

[Prelude]

Got a hurdle
My legs are broke
You’re running high
I am on a helpless low

So i indulge in dirt
Smash my face on the wall
But its working good
Another shot of soot

———————————-
I woke up to the sound of flies buzzing and in some instances hissing all over my coffee that was nicely packaged by some combined brain of a ruthless marketing manager and an egoistic engineer.I cannot clearly remember, and sometimes memory is best forgotten and this was not one of those times, but i do remember that i had bought that disgust that is part chocolate powder, part milk and part coffee at a popularly fancied corporation three days ago.

I could manufacture this garbage at home. Yet i choose to pay 3 dollars and fifty four cents to this organization who would not give a fuck what happens to me if i stopped coming in or if i tragically died at their very doorstep. But my dreams are hampered. My ambitions are handicapped. My basic will to breathe has been pampered by the fact that i have organs in my so called living human body that allows me to continue living life just like everyone around me. Neighbors, Friends, Family, Co Workers, that cute punk rock girl who hates her job as the girl who makes my stinking coffee once in three days. But she is the only one i like these days.

We talk about all our favorite bands and artists such as Some Velvet Sidewalk, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Kinks, Mudhoney, Supergrass, Kula Shaker, Clutch, Truckfighters, Rory Gallagher, Porcupine Tree, Katatonia, Neil Young, Soundgarden, Opeth, Bob Dylan and Alice In Chains. There are a million more bands that we speak of and i am absolutely nuts and bolts about all of them but unfortunately these are the bands and artists that come to my mind right now as i write this dribble and lately i have even started talking about all the Indian bands that i have really come to bang my head to. Bands like Bevar Sea, Skrat, Blackstratblues, Scribe, The Supersonics, Goddess Gagged, Skyharbor and many many many more. Primarily Bevar Sea. That band just fucking rocks the shit out of me.

Besides she does not fail to talk about her boyfriend who she lives with, so all these fantasies i have made up in my mind that i plan on doing with her while she bores me with her stories about how her love life is so great wear me down. Fantasies that i, in my head, plan on doing with her such as going on beach walks, skateboarding with her, watching good movies, boring Hollywood crap, stand up comedy, drinking wine, beer, whisky, rum, smoking weed, endlessly fucking all night and endlessly fucking all sober and hungover days, going for open mic evenings and together supporting local bands and artists, and yes, those cheesy candlelight dinners, meeting her parents and pretending that i actually like them, fucking her again and again in all possibly instinctively known sexual positions, just sort of slowly fade away and it makes me want to throw that coffee that is bubbling with high temperature on her pretty as a Kate Hudson’s smile face and find the next bar where i can get drunk out of my fucking mind and then later go to the seediest liquor store to score the worst fucking alcohol and go back to my apartment and in my peaceful lunacy, suck it all up and smash my head to these amazing bands and maybe just poison the fuck out of me.

Who remembers, how often i go to the coffee shop, but i do and i will continue to do so and that has started to make me sick.

A sudden wave of nostalgia oceans all the way to the shore. At this point you think i am going to talk about someone i loved. But no, i am talking about a trivial subject like when i moved into this beach side apartment and my carpet was fresh and new. Fast forward four years since i moved into this soothing as fuck, Aqua Rain smelling, newly painted apartment and in plain simple honest words, i have fucked the place up. I am not expecting the return on my deposit. I will be lucky if i don’t have to pay any additional dough to the landlord. What kind of fucked up terminology is landlord anyway? Yeah, fine, he owns the property. There is no need to bring the word “Lord” into the equation, especially since we are living in 2013.

Now the carpet has a  whole lot of holes caused by my drunken state of cigarette burns. There are burger pieces scattered on one side. Spilt beer, rum and whisky stains. Semen, you ask? Its possible. A whole many empty beer bottles and a whole many beer bottles i could not complete in its full extent. You know, that last micro sip still lingering in that bottle but you are too fucked up to care and a fresh new chilled as ice will be the only thing that will stimulate that very little, petty, spoilt, small, sick as fuck brain of yours. A few of the flies have decided to suck on those. I guess you could say, my kind of flies. All I say to myself is “Yeah, fuck the coffee, beer is the real shit. Way to advance, Flies”.

I am scared. I am afraid. I feel fear. Ironically, i fucking hate insects. You may argue, so does everyone. But i am not everyone.
Everyone does not wake up to the annoying sounds of a swarm of flies guttering over a purchased coffee that was three days old, burger bits  and empty bottles of alcohol that are begging to get the fuck out of the apartment and into the recyclable trash where they so rightly belong.

==The End=====

Inquisition “Obscure Verses For The Multiverse” Review

Sceptre “Age Of Calamity” Review”


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