One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter by Scaachi Koul

Author:Scaachi Koul
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Picador

Papa <[email protected]>, August 27, 2015

Did she pay for the lunch?

Scaachi <[email protected]>, August 27, 2015

why are you obsessed with whether people buy me lunch or not i am not destitute

Papa <[email protected]>, August 27, 2015

If they do that means they hold you in high esteem ok omg

A Good Egg

“DID I TELL YOU,” I bellowed into the yawning chasm of existence, on the first day of a new month of a new year, of renewed body and refreshed mind, “THAT I AM DOING A CLEANSE?”

Before Hamhock and I left for our trip to Thailand and Vietnam, I knew that my body would be taking a beating because I have no self-control. We were going to a part of the world where beers cost a few bucks and you can still smoke indoors, so I figured I’d give my liver a head start by avoiding alcohol for the month of January. Dry January, they call it, an attempt to start the year off right, to cure your body of what you did over the winter holidays, to be a better person. This, of all years, will be the year you are not walking acid reflux, where you take care of yourself, where you will floss. I was only asking four weeks of sobriety for and from myself, just thirty-one days, though I’d never gone that long without a glass of wine since I started drinking. My trip would be self-indulgent enough, complete with what the locals call a Bucket of Joy: ice, Red Bull, Sprite, and rum or whisky. It’s a death wish served in a frosty pail, and I was going to drink all of them.

Before I would get there, however, I’d drain my body of its toxins, eat right, go to the gym, and drink plenty of water. I’d talk about yoga. (I wouldn’t, like, go to yoga, but I’d talk about it. If I’ve learned anything from white women, it’s that the best kind of yoga is the kind you talk about fucking constantly.)

It’s not that I drink a lot. I rarely drink during the week, and my weekend drinking generally consists of juuuust enough wine to make me forget about the three times I’ve accidentally sent my boss a furious and deeply intimate Facebook message intended for Hamhock. But I like alcohol because it induces a kind of stupor I can control, one that comes in gentle waves, that I can keep at bay with water and disco fries or make harsher with amber-coloured liquor. Booze has, probably, played a bigger part in my life than I ever intended. (Though what is a “normal” amount of alcohol for someone with a baseline level of childhood trauma? Is it worse if I rim a Tom Collins with crushed Children’s Tylenol? LET ME LIVE.) My birthdays get increasingly foggy thanks to pinot over dinner; good news is celebrated with off-brand champagne. (“You can’t call it champagne if it’s not from Champagne,” Hamhock says as I try to saw his head off with a broken bottle.

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