I walked to an ad on the train platform — a picture of an old woman with smeared lipstick, spiky drunk hair, holding a glass of liquor and a cigarette. She wore flashy clothes too young for her wrinkled personage, and she was dancing. The caption: Crazy Old Aunties Deserve to Die. Why I’m of this ilk. I’ve written about it mmm hmm, in this blog. Crazy ‘ol Auntie Sandee, the middle-aged death metalist, alcoholic. Me and the poor old woman in this poster — people just don’t understand! The ad was an off beat anti-smoking campaign. Generally they were saying people make excuses when it comes to smoking. But I quit smoking — quit the same time I quit drinking. Considering the circumstances it was a wise decision.
A long time ago Crazy ‘ol Auntie Sandee went to the bar and met a boy quite a few years younger. From the Canary Islands. We talked and talked and talked. He leaned over and in his Spanish accent said, “I want to kiss you.” Yeah, yeah, so I made out with him in the bar loosey goosey, whatever. All I remember is waking up alone to discover that I had apparently had safe sex with someone. Twice. I threw the condom wrappers away and went to work, recalling vaguely saying the night before, ‘Oooo, that’s niiice.”
A day later I get a call. “Hello Sandee.” It was the Spaniard! “I have no idea what happened here the night before. Why don’t we meet at the diner so you can tell me what happened and then I can see what you look like too.” I recalled a handsome young devil but I was drunk. I needed to know.
He was a handsome young devil on some kind of a work visa. He would be leaving in a month. He was studying to become a lawyer — I had sex with him. In a blackout. I wasn’t present, wasn’t there, didn’t get to experience this because I was in a blackout. This made no sense. I stopped drinking immediately. Crazy ‘ol Aunties do indeed deserve to die when they deprive themselves of being present to experience having sex with handsome young men with European accents.