That one SOAKA Story 😳

30.01.16

I hate writing.

I never know what the hell to say and always end up scrapping whatever nonsense I do scribble before anyone but myself gets the chance to judge. Apparently, I’m kinda good at it, though, or so I’ve heard. But the truth is, I’m a tough critic (especially on myself) and not so easily convinced. That said, I’m going to try and write you a story of some sort, in the hopes that some of that so called ‘talent‘ will slap on a name tag, jump right out of the screen and smack you across your face with its splendor. And by you, of course, I don’t mean whatever poor sap has managed to stumble upon this. I mean YOU, you narrow minded, doubtful sack of sh¡t! (Referring to my sober self)

My reason for this little experiment, though you might assume it to be something as grand as it is rewarding, is something a bit more simple. I always doubt myself. I’ve always doubted myself. I am a chronic doubter…of myself…and my abilities. Even when these seemingly unbelievable things would happen to me throughout my life, I always keep my umbrella of skepticism close by as I await the inevitable ‘other shoe’ to drop. But, as I’m currently high as New York skyscraper and completely and absurdly unengaged, I figured it couldn’t fvcking hurt.

So, here goes…

Ok, dafuq do I write about now? Hmm…I guess I could write about my current employment situation. And by that I mean my absolute nonchalance about the barely comfortable jobless limbo I’ve been stuck in for 4months.

#bumlife.

Call me crazy, but it’s completely absurd to me that in possibly the best era live in since the dawn of time, a young person of let’s say a bit above average intelligence who did all the rights things and went to all the right schools can come back home and still not qualify for a suitable job because their either overqualified or lack experience in the field. Our economy is turning on its head and there is absolutely nothing in place for the educated millennial to be able to effectively benefit their communities or themselves. But I digress.

I mean, other than the merciless public interrogations about my current unemployment, the pathetic optimistic cliches and, my personal favorite of all the excuses, “The Goddamn Recession“, there wasn’t really much to talk about. I applied and waited, applied and waited, until I decided I wasn’t gonna wast my time anymore. My resume clearly wasn’t cutting it out here and it was supposedly the strongest piece of paper I had to offer (after USD, which I didn’t have anyway).

I could talk about the pseudo emotional see-saw that WAS this ongoing ‘thing’ with a female companion of mine. Butttttt…idk, idk. I’m basically just kind of a dick and she’s kinda just too soft for me. I mean, I am kind of a cold hearted, polygamous, egocentric, erratic, idiosyncratic, obstinate and reasonably reckless young bachelor just out here tryna life his life’n sh¡t. But, I’m also just mostly kind of a dick.

In my defense tho, she was crazy. But I guess they all kinda are, aren’t they? Not really a great defense…

Anyway, things were finally looking like they were winding down with us (No…like, freal this time…freal, freal, I mean it!) and just as this happens, guess who comes in for carnival.

Ding ding ding!

The one with the big heart and golden initials.

Well, this part of the story can’t actually be written because she isn’t here yet. But! Christmas vacation with her was something seriously special. Some really good and important time spent. Quite a soulchild that one…and I am incredibly intrigued by it. Sadly, I messed up around New Years, but I was hoping Carnival would allow me the time to make up for it.

Speaking of which, I recently attended my first official fete of the ridiculously short Carnival season. Technically, I also briefly attended Stumped and left in record time, completely STUMPED! How is that still a staple fete in our slowly but surely evolving Carnival? Anyway, that didn’t really count, as I left 15mins later having out for duck. By now, a few fetes, big and small, had gone by without so much as smelling me. I was sticking resiliently to my ‘OFF‘ campaign (Only Free Fetes) for the Carnival. I was also dead fvcking broke and too proud to beg…for comps that is. I had that single shred of dignity left. Soaka, however, could not be missed. I’d heard countless stories about how insanely EPIC Soaka was for other people but had never actually gotten that feeling myself. I’d been before and had a good time, but something just felt different about this one. And this time, I was ready for it! Having already fulfilled my OFF campaign’s FOMO requirements for the month, I was eager to grab this big, wet, monster fete by the paint covered pigtails and jam it out to “In We Blood”. And after magically acquiring my golden ticket, then contemplating scalping it back on Facebook for double its worth, the faithful morning had finally come! The hype was swelling with each minute, our crew was ready, cooler all packed up….

Andddddd, then our bus never showed up. So, reluctantly, we ended up having to car pool through the horrendous traffic instead, still managing to have a vibe about us by the time we actually got there. I’m pretty sure it was the barrage of shots straight from the megaton, but who am I to say? Already pretty primed up by the time we got inside, we found a spot, set up base and immediately began the bacchanal.

Truthfully, I can’t remember much more after that. I have a shoddy recollection of shotting vodka out of a huge White Oak bottle, getting obnoxiously drunk with my friends, jumping up and wilding out to The Monk (getting a shoutout in the process #YumaPosseActivate), shamelessly biting girls colorful asses, climbing and dancing on fences and, of course, a shitload of paint and more water than South Quay during rainy season. However, if there’s one thing that will LITERALLY etch this memory in me forever, it’s the big ass gash I got on my inner thigh. How did I manage this one, you might ask?? Ha! I knew you would. Well, I shall proceed to tell you!

On my way for a quick bathroom break, mid party, I was aggressively approached by some ‘locals’ who, unbeknownst to my Drunken Master Kung fu status, proceeded to try to relieve me of my personal items. Revealing small weapons of much sharpness (that ironically resembled fishing equipment), they pounced! However, I managed to quickly and skillfully subdue my assailants by laying upon them, in an artfully fluid and drunken style, some-a-dat whupass (cus I’m a fvckin G, come on). But, just as I dust my hands and prepare to stagger off to the pee pee room, I was caught by a hook in the thigh! A blasted fish hook, dontcha know it! A last ditch effort by one of my severely injured opponents, before he finally rolled over to his dramatically faked death. Immediately, I switch into Rambo mode. I spat in my hands, rubbed them together, slapped my now bleeding wound 3 times and grunted extremely loudly. Infuriated by the sight of my own blood and my now bursting bladder, I whipped out my junk right then and there, held it one handed assault rifle style, and began to let fly everywhere like a Jr Sammy truck; all the while doing my best Sylvester Stallone impersonation. And by now, I’m sure, you’re probably wondering what really happened lol. Wellllllllll, if you must know, I actually scraped my leg trying to drunkenly hop over a latch to the back of the toilet trailers in an attempt to beat the system and avoid joining the bathroom line. True story, bro.

Anyway, noticing the blood, I had to be forcefully escorted (because I kept trying to party instead of treating injury) backstage to the ambulance by the most muscly man in the lime. He tells this part of the story way funnier and way way more exaggerated than I ever could. Next thing I know, a wild retard appears and tries to pour 1 part rum, 2 parts Coke and 3 parts paint on my very open wound in an idiotic attempt to ‘kill the germs‘. Thankfully, Jesus Saves and I managed to restrain myself from round housing him in the neck. Once I made it to the ambulance, I demanded to be quickly bandaged so I could return to the party at once! The attendants stare at me blankly then slowly and barely competently do the job they’re actually being paid to be there to perform. Ridiculous, right? God forbid that a gaping hole in the leg of a patron is actually a medical issue that falls under the list of their responsibilities or anything, ya know? Finally, I resurface from backstage to my group of drunkards, eagerly waiting to welcome me back into the jamishness. This makes me happy until about the 6th person asks, “OMG! What happeneddd?!” Despising sounding like a looped voice note, I top up my drink, cock up meh bad leg and resume my previous bacchanalistic behavior, if there was any behavior left to be had at all. Then, before I know it, the party is over, the venue is empty and the police are forced to make it clear to us that its home time. We are always the last to leave for some reason.

There was an after party right outside, but it was nothing to write to mother about. It was nothing at all, actually. Basically, just a lime on the Harbour Master to duck traffic in the shade and continue getting drunk if one felt so inclined (which, naturally, we did). But yea, aside from still having to sleep in the car as a result of the residual traffic, that basically sums up my first ever EPIC Soaka story! 🤷🏽‍♂️

#Drunk #Carnival #TheGillT #Soaka #Epic #Fete #Ramblings