What kind of sick people make an orzo salad and call it tabbouleh? The Doha airport Costa Cafe people that’s who! Anyway it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, it’s just too early to be at the boarding gate so this will do just fine.
Nothing matters. We’re the bright kids with useless degrees. We’re sooo media, like Gary Shteyngart would say, if his characters had a say.
All around us is Qatar, crazy Qatar that owns PSG and Camden markets and the world. We only see the airport. The temporary version of the airport because the real thing is still under construction.
So here we are, almost 30, and we’ll never have diamonds in our soup. We’re the very qualified and relatively inexpensive workers of a lost planet; Doomed to have no home as we pretend our careers matter.
We will not change the world.
We will not invent ice cubes.
We will survive and not thrive.
We will win health insurance with our jobs.
We will lose health insurance when cancer catches up.
We will sometimes miss “home”, we might “go back” and leave behind everything we built to go looking for a home that has changed without telling us; we might “just stay there” and grow old alone, in a country where our accent is funny and where it’s usually too cold. We might start from scratch somewhere new, we often do, in a place where our accent is also funny, where we have nothing. We will be nostalgic about things that didn’t use to matter: the taste of a good apple and going to the beach every day, 5 months a year.
I can’t tell people I’m sick of living so randomly. I keep changing careers, changing destinations, pretending I know what I want. How do people build lives? I don’t know, don’t know how. I just got an email, a new job, in a new country. I’ll get packing as soon as I get home since I have no reason to stay where I am.
Right now it’s just a Qatar layover, lay over, roll over, submit.
You’re eating a sandwich, we’ve met before, when I had long hair. That was ages ago. The substance of our conversation: I’ve been wearing glasses since I was 2 years old, because that’s how long it took for my parents to discover I’m cross-eyed. So I was the cross-eyed girl, afraid to poke her eyes out with lenses, I wore big spectacles before they were approved by fashion magazines. This is how I can see that you have grey in your hair too and it’s kind of a relief. But we’re young, still young, aren’t we? No we’re not, not really.
So why do I feel so dumb, so bored, so teenage spirit so so so so cold. I’m a grown up, I’m wearing high heels, not that high but look! They’re cobalt blue! Granted, these are wedges, not heels but my ass is improved all the same.
These are the fuck-me pumps of a girl who lives in flats. “Flat-shoe advocate.” That’s what it says in Arianna Huffington’s twitter bio. But I’ll never be Arianna Huffington, I’ll never be successful, I’ll never be anything, and neither will you.
Instead we’re an Edward Hopper scene in drag: everyday sensuality gone cold. In our eyes there’s glitter and gold. And we shine baby! We shine bright.
I have a headache and there’s that Lilly Allen song nagging me “when she was 22, her future looked bright…” Ha!
Let’s be honest, let’s try. I’ll start: The only point is coitus. The only point of a wide array of elaborate, sexy, sensual, cinematic flirting touching smiling conversing, holding hand but it stings. Holding hands stings, kissing burns. He might grunt, look pathetic or (total buzzkill) call out for mother! (happened to my friend’s sister and now all the girls know because, we gossip). she might or might not moan, scream, snort or just fake-pornstar it (apparently my friend’s sister does it, yeah men gossip too). Few things are as unsexy as coitus. Oh what an ugly word! That’s exactly why I use it.
And it’s very wrong what they say about it being a moment of union. It’s isolating as hell because nobody understands; the man whose dick is going limp inside you will not understand what happened a few moments ago… Inside you. Still it’s what keeps us sane, remembering we’re nothing but mammals with lace thongs on a brazilian wax.
This is what we do, this is how we do it. Let’s do it. Everything else is uninteresting.
Let’s pick another plane, let’s not even ask where it’s going and let’s hope it’s Mexico. No, in fact I really don’t care where, Destination is a mute point, destination is always a brick wall.