Conjugation spark.

I don't remember exactly what liqueur we drank then, but what difference does it make? The weather was nice, and as usual, I was tormented by emotional problems. From time to time, they would smoothly metamorphose into general, existential reflections on familiar topics. It's clear what I'm talking about: the purpose of existence, the meaning of life, and my toothache. The story I want to tell began with a seat: the material one on a chair and the spiritual one on the floor. Although I usually focus on the latter, I decided, as an exception and a hygienic change, to base my story on problems related to the outside world. Therefore, you, dear reader, will not be tormented by a profound analysis of my spiritual experiences. Time to relax! Time for a banal story that begins with a chair!

The chair was in a room, and the room had a door. There was a sign on the door, and on it was written: at such-and-such time (and it was such-and-such), on such-and-such day (and it was such-and-such), for such-and-such year (and I was in such-and-such), for such-and-such studies (which I was also in), there is a Latin language course. Whichever way you look at it, Latin was the sixth language I had been allowed to cram into my head; from my native language to this dead carcass, all my experiences could be described as macabre. Trauma, ladies and gentlemen, a true trauma; but that wasn't what I was supposed to talk about.

I sat there, irritated. My mind crackled with an incorrigible expectation for any spark that would ignite the emotions that had long been buried within. And then, a miracle happened; the spark appeared. How? In the form of conjugation! So, while constantly practicing our verb conjugations, we finally, after much toil and effort, stumbled upon the verb "vinco" (vincere, vici, victum). We began to conjugate this verb:

vinco, vinces, vincet, vincemus, vincetis, vincent.

My thoughts focused on the first-person singular, and not just because I like myself the most. An obsessive "winko, winko, winko" swirled through my stale mind. The situation was so obvious that I didn't even want to speak up. Therefore, it's no surprise that the idea of ​​going outdoors for the sake of drinking was conceived and launched into the air by my intrepid friend, Mr. Żeluś.

At this point, since we're not pressed for time, I'll allow myself a small digression and make the necessary introduction to my personal friend, one who likely won't be the mother of my children, but who, apart from that, I respect him greatly. I've known Żeluś for a long time. His appearance perfectly matches his nickname, his demeanor, his way of expressing thoughts and feelings, and his emotional level, his manner. I, of course, was a Pancur from the very beginning, a rebel and anarchist, throwing bricks at filthy dogs on a short leash of the system. Therefore, it's difficult for me to fathom the smallest details of the genesis of our grotesquely exotic friendship. The fact is, we're dealing here with an unprecedented parallelism in our supply of the world, which binds distant galaxies of human existence together with a thin thread of understanding. In layman's terms: we both like to drink wine.

Returning to the main point, the hour of reckoning has struck, and the classes are over. Without unnecessary interruptions in our so-called game, we went to the store to do what was absolutely necessary in such a situation: buy what needed to be bought. And just at that moment, just as the old thought was whistling through our heads: "in vino veritas," a completely new voice, for a change, spoke up:

"What is it, [bleep], unscraped rotten things, [bleep]?"

I immediately recognized it as a Bulgarian by his style. I spun on my heel and immediately compared my auditory impressions with the visual preview. He appeared to me in a portly and handsome figure, his hair tastefully tangled in a ponytail, perfectly suited to a donkey like him. From the back, you'd say a polished maiden, a young goddess with a snake's foot crushing him, but here it was – a cavalier in front. There was no mistaking the fact that the Bulgarian caught us at the store. If you have any information about this individual, you know that his first, most important, crucial, and most striking characteristic is that he's undoubtedly a heavy drinker. So, he's slipped in a bit of a boorish hookup, but we think it's nothing really.

We bought what we should have bought, and what we shouldn't have, but Żeluś had a flair for extravagance and added some breadsticks. Once there, after conducting the necessary reconnaissance to confirm the absence of any uniformed services (in the form of foot, horse, or motorized patrols), we settled down on the grass and opened whatever was necessary. We tried to maintain our touch with the language of the great Cicero until the very end, occasionally showing off our impeccable knowledge of proverbs and aphorisms. "Ergo bibamus," someone said after the first flick of the wrist. "Ignoramus et ignorabimus," another echoed him during a lively discussion about the chemical composition of the medications we were drinking. So we spent our time as befits young people with a classical upbringing: socializing with a touch of decadence. All the while, we didn't forget the indispensable pinch of nihilism. "Life sucks," someone said, as if confirming my earlier reflections.

Time passed merrily, and as it ebbed, Żeluś's behavior became less and less appropriate. This clearly indicated that our friend was slowly fading into a dimension. Not to be outdone, I pushed at the stream of my consciousness with a stick, and the only purpose of this push could be to completely obliterate it. And just as I was preparing to perform this momentous act, something happened that would change my life forever. Well, maybe for a long time. Hmm, hmm. Let it be said that something—nay, what's the point, even a phenomenon—happened that completely, or if not completely, then quite significantly, changed the fate of my existence on that quite sunny day.

Six strange individuals appeared before our eyes, their attire allowing us, for a moment, to feel like citizens of the Olympic Village. This was most likely an official delegation of the local indigenous peoples, as their moderately cool attitude toward us indicated. From the very beginning, one fundamental question began to resonate with them: what were these inexorable whims of the weather, bringing us to this typical place, at such an unusual hour, we might add? The Bulgarian, being the most refined of us, and still remembering drinking alcohol like a parasite, resolutely attempted to break the ice and provide a few necessary explanations. And since, as Gombrowicz used to say before his escape to the hamerica [Latin, nota bene], "no explanation has yet been seen that wouldn't be an obfuscation" [at the same time - editor's note], his efforts were in vain. His explanation, embellished with a mischievous smile, incited a sarcastic passion in our new friends, forcing us to make a tactical retreat with all our might.

As the poet says: there were three of us, each of us breathing rapidly. And we ran. We ran forward; at breakneck speed, constantly darting sideways, weaving through alleyways; leaping over smaller obstacles, avoiding larger ones, feeling the breath and unsettling fumes of our enemies on our backs. And now, in retrospect, I'm very happy about this, and my heart swells that we ran. Because what kind of story would this be without a blood-curdling chase in the final scene? It would be utter crap, if I'm not mistaken. The same crap, only in a slightly different form, a light, if I may use such a cheeky term, would have been if a supporting character, for whom the audience feels exceptionally warm, hadn't suffered significant harm. Fortunately, we won't experience that crap, and the one who gets us out of trouble will once again be the Bulgarian. His name is forty-four, because he's suffering for millions, but getting back to the point, the guy tripped over a cobblestone right on the sidewalk. He bruised his poor knee, a neat hole appeared in his trousers, and it was only a miracle that his meniscus didn't slip, because then he could have truly said he was unlucky. He got up immediately, and would have probably already been hit hard, the shivering tribe would have already been dancing the kujawiak over his head, and would have already uttered their triumphant cry, if it weren't for the fact that they had abandoned the chase a few minutes earlier.

Truly, there was no end to laughter when we saw our mistake in all the decoration. We immediately began to take stock of our financial resources and were speechless with horror. It dawned on us that there was no point in further messing around; at least for today. We wandered the streets a bit longer, checking out various dens of alcoholic debauchery, driven by the false hope that we might still find independent sponsors. Unfortunately, the season was so young that this search ended in failure. So, within two blinks of my tail, I heard the sacramental "So long!" and I saw so many boys. On the way back home, I stumbled upon some bushes, and I guess those little fingers did something to me, because I had a low-level close encounter with Mother Earth. A few stomach cramps forced me to pay this last unusual homage, but all good things come to nothing, because I also noticed something strange on my shoe. I plucked a tuft of grass from the ground, wiped it off, and headed off into the blue distance—home, that is. Just before the door, I glanced back, and, not without a grin on my face, I thought of something I can't remember now, then, lost in thought, I went in.

There was silence for a moment, and then the hangover came.