A True Story

I am such a child sometimes.

Last night, I had the fortune of meeting a gentleman with a sizable sense of self. I've met his kind before, typically sprung from the loins of Mother India, very enamored with his many (real & imagined) accomplishments and (real & imagined) acquisitions. He proceeded to enlighten me on his latest endeavour - a work of brilliance, I was informed. He spoke of form and content, of plot lines and characterisations. He spoke of premise.
In between large swigs of his drink, he jokingly informed me he was a bit of an alcoholic (har har) - but only in the way that intellectuals are allowed to be alcoholics. Next was the string of questions that intellectual gentlemen like him never fail to ask to test your capacity to volley bullshit (if you pass the test, you get to move on to the next round of the BS Grand Slam). He wanted to discuss the trials and tribulations of being a writer (o what tough lives we lead...). That's when the conversation faltered.

For I was engaged in a complex internal dialogue of my own:
Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee.
My jeans are giving me a muffin top...his jeans are giving him a muffin top.
Man, he looks like Himanshu.
Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee.

My inner struggles must have reflected in the dumbass expression on my face, because the said gentleman's enthusiasm suddenly faded and he receded into his rum and coke.