handgrenade: переводы

→I chuckle to myself at how ridiculous it sounds. It's a concept that up until this very moment I would not have regarded as anything but a fantasy. A fictional lifestyle from a Too $hort rap. But the more I think about it, the more I warm to the idea. Divorce all emotion from my sexual relationships. Go on a hedonistic fuck-spree and rail a shit-ton of hot bitches; a sort of "salvation through sin." Abandon the ridiculous notion of true love and all of its attendant bullshit. I just don't care anymore. No more feelings. This is war: Date. Fuck. Win.

→I am going to become a "player."

→Before last night's debacle, I had slept with only two women in my lifetime. In both instances, I had given myself 100 percent to the relationship, heart and soul, expecting the same in return. Both times, that intensity was reciprocated for a while, but it did not last. It couldn't. Suddenly, it becomes clear that I've been trying to operate within a framework that's inherently flawed. Right here, in this freezing garage at seven o'clock in the morning, I arrive at a decision:

→What I do know is this: something has to change.

→I can't say anything in response. The truth is, I don't even know if the person she's talking about exists anymore.

→"Of course we want you here. But it would be nice if you came down more than once every eight years!" She looks sad. "I miss you, dude. Remember when we used to be tight? I just want my brother back."

→I snap, "What, you don't want me here?"

→Bridget breaks the silence. "So what's up with this trip? Why'd you come down here?"

→Ugh. It's coming back to me now. I was already wasted by the time Diana got there. In her car, I basically begged her to come back, proclaiming my love for her, etc. She just sort of brushed it off. She didn't even reject me .. . she just ignored me. The last thing I remember is sitting in the passenger seat and crying while she made me listen to her "demo tape." Then she was gone. Again.

→"We went out to dinner and then we went to the bar. Some ex-girlfriend of yours came down from L.A. to see you. You met her out in the parking lot and sat in her car for like an hour and then she left, and you started crying and rolling around on the ground out front of the bar. They were gonna call the cops, dude. We went back to Gretchen's house, and, uh ... you stayed there."

→"No shit. What happened?"

→"Duuuuuude. You were fucked up last night, bro."

→"Yes, I banged your friend and puked on my tracksuit. In fact I may have puked on your friend while wearing the tracksuit and banging her. I'm not sure." I close the lid and start the wash cycle.

→I find my car and drive back to my mother's house. I enter the house as quietly as possible and strip off the putrid tracksuit. I'm in the garage throwing it into the washing machine when my sister walks in, in her pajamas. It takes her a second to realize what I am doing, and why, and then she starts laughing. "Hahahaha what the fuck, dude?! You nasty."

→I manage to stand and begin to look for my clothing. I find my tracksuit on the floor next to the bed. It is covered in chunky vomit, the source of the stench. Flashes of dinner at the sushi bar. I don't want to wear these clothes, but it looks like I have no choice. I shake the chunks off and pull on the pants, slip into my shoes and tiptoe out of the apartment.

→Someone is sleeping next to me, and I struggle to determine who it is. It appears to be an unattractive woman with an extraordinarily bad haircut. I'm not sure, but I think it's my sister's friend. I vaguely remember having sex with her at some point. Her mouth is open, and she's snoring loudly. I need to get the fuck out of here as quickly as possible.