i don't know why many people think my life is perfect. but it doesn't matter. i'm about to tell you a story that proves beyond doubt that it isn't.
i went to goa last week. left on tuesday night, with 3 days leave approved, and planning to get back home on monday morning, ready (hopefully) for work.
i went to goa to meet my best friend, who was flying down to india after almost a year, and accompany her on the sidelines as she accompanied her cousin down the aisle as a bridesmaid.
hmm. so story so far: 3 days leave, lovely goa, best friend, wedding. all the hints of perfection in the making.
i didn't know her parents were there.
her parents didn't know i was gonna be there.
her parents didn't know i was staying with them.
i didn't know her parents *kinda* hate me.
we found this out when i call them from the bus stand, my bags in hand, a 5 minute walk from her house, while she's unreachable and on a plane a few thousand kilometres away.
what followed were 2 days of high drama, interspersed with mindless hours (a day and a night, to be precise) of staring at repeats on the 3 english channels the tv in my hotel room dutifully supplied.
48 hours after i had hopped onto the bus and headed to goa, i got mindfucked to the point i could take it no more.
checked out of the hotel, took the last bus home, paid double of what i should have, anything just to get away from that fuckin hellhole. even went to work on friday morning straight after the 14 hour ride.
i met my friend for precisely 15 minutes in those two days.
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