Parachutes

I have three really close friends who I would unflinchingly:

a) Pass the last parachute to.
b) Shield against an incoming hail of bullets.
c) Clean up their sick for them, if they vomit from too much drinking.

This morning, one of them left for Sydney, Australia. He will be duly back next year.

I feel a little lost today.

The 7-11 at Taman Tun was our final stop, last night. We were going to buy some long island teas for a nightcap. Sadly, there were none left. And since we don’t drink beer anymore (the vain bastards that we are), we just bought some coffee and sat down outside and mucked about till two o’clock in the morning.

We talked about work, music and women.

I wanted to tell him that I was a little depressed that one of my best buddies was leaving for a whole year. I wanted to wish him the best for his studies and well done, good luck with the new girlfriend, mate.

And don’t worry; we’ll swap our tunes on MSN.

Instead, I mumbled something about turntables, gave him a quick hug, and drove off, Noisia’s remix of Konflict’s "Messiah" sounding off my retreat.

Oh well.

There’s still the possibility that the four of us might end up in the same old folk’s home, racing wheelchairs and refusing cough medicine.

Reprazent, bro.