I think im Allergic
This story may not be relevant to the commute; however, I wrote it on the DLR, therefore, I feel it somewhat counts as a commuter story.
The third time is always the charm.
Throughout my life, I’ve been in favour of a prawn. Whether served in cocktail form, crisp form, or alone. Whichever way it’s prepared, I’ll have it. The way I’d describe how a prawn, a succulent, slightly crunchy prawn, makes me feel is good. It’s alright. I wouldn’t be scared or afraid of these tiny creatures. Food is good, food makes me happy, and therefore I am happy when I’m eating prawns. There are a few signs I’ll speak of that may suggest I am indeed allergic to prawns. They cascade over 3 days, spread over the course of 3 weeks, but all fall on a Friday.
Day 1
6 pm hits, and I’ve missed the train. I’ve spent too long ripping into oncomers and stupid pedestrians when I should have ignored them, closed my eyes, and sprinted down the tunnel to my train. I should have kept my eyes shut even after I missed the train, as at least I wouldn’t have seen how close I was to the train. Anyways. I perched down on the chair like I was holding in an absolute corker. Time doesn’t fly by when you are hoping it does, so you just have to enjoy the moment. I was there for 45 minutes. 45 minutes. 4+5 = 9, that’s 1 away from 10, i.e., an hour. Therefore, that’s a lot of time to waste.
I sat there gazing at pigeons, thinking I know what this one is thinking. The pigeon looked very esteemed or smart. That may be the alcohol recollection of the pigeon, but I could tell in my sober state he had held a degree. This bird had some discipline. I then perched on the floor and sent a breeze of that corker into the pigeon's wings to see if it would take flight. Would my pops of wind send this pigeon into overdrive? That’s how bored I really was. Five minutes into trying to become whatever it is that pushes a bird to fly, I thought there must be a better way to handle this situation.
I placed my bag on the floor and grabbed some books. I started flapping these books like I was the Wright brothers on an early model of flight, where they thought imitating a bird might work, and unsurprisingly, knowing they failed, I still gave it a go. This bird gave in and clocked out. Is this what a pigeon would consider work, or was my mind so deep in the sand?
One lovely evening, I bought some special fried rice from a well-respected Chinese restaurant, if you can call it that, and when I say it disagreed with me and the large amount of Himalayan green tea I was drinking that afternoon to try and relax myself, I felt like a composer at a primary school orchestra. You know it’s going to be shit and an awful racket, but watching everything come together was rather emotional. It was either the excitement or the distress of the situation. One of the two.
Well, I was sitting down, and it hit. I knew the prawns wanted to be reintroduced into the world. I’m all about reincarnation, but not a rebirth out of my mouth. I arrived at my destination. I don’t mean I was sick. I mean, I arrived at the lav I would desecrate, like christening a ship with a bottle of wine, and thwacked my face into the toilet, praying it would be an easy exit. All I’m saying is God gave us saliva, I hope its use is fully exploited by essentially dragging rice granules out of my oesophagus.
Act 1
started. My first monologue was a lot of shouting followed by some regurgitation of only air. Nothing with any substance was resurfacing. What I hate is the fact that I put all of that effort in, and my body was not interested. If I were persistent enough, it didn’t matter. Although as soon as I leave this safe haven and lie down, all comes loose. My brain takes notice that I should just let it go. Let it out and let it be free. Why I was doing so much for these pieces of shit, I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense, and it wasn’t deserved.
I took a pause to understand what a prawn is. A prawn is balanced. A mix of negative space. If you were to sketch a prawn on a piece of paper, it would be a mix of negative space and orange slices. The emptiness mixed with a sharp taste packed with juices. Now, when I think of prawns, I think of croissants. I have lost all hope and a clear idea of what a prawn consists of, and is that confusion the power of my allergy or the tiredness of my brain?
Rice pudding.
At this stage, I felt rather pleased with myself, like I had got all of this up and out of me. I could finally move on. My world was placed on pause, and I could finally see the light at the bottom of the toilet. It was in fact not the end of the tunnel but the start of Act 2, which I’m calling Rice Rice Baby.
Friction. It holds you back when your life has shoved you down a hill made of a slightly gravelled surface. Keeps you just there waiting. Something so useful and yet something you pray loses and is outperformed by your saliva. Now imagine everything I’ve just said, and then eat a special fried rice. I bet when you are chucking up the rice, it makes you feel more sick.
The only way I can describe it to the same degree is if you have ever been to a zoo and wondered what it would feel like to eat an eel whilst it was alive. So you go to put it in your mouth and chew, but that sneaky thing has slithered down your throat and is being dismembered by your trusty stomach. But some idiot has come to your rescue and is pulling this biter right back out in the hopes everything will be ok. As he pulls out this eel, its bones are clinging on like a cat trying to stop itself from falling off a bed by grabbing a blanket that isn’t attached to anything. That eel is pulling up all of the phlegm you’ve been trying to get rid of for months. And once it’s out, everything is out, and everything is known. You feel clean and yet violated by the eel, rice. That’s how I would describe that moment for you to understand.