Heartache, Hangovers & Karaoke Hell - 1. Chapter 1

I had just experienced the heartbreak of my life; one I would surely never recover from—not even in a thousand years. Yes, I’m talking about a full-on Titanic-level sinking of my heart, with me as a desperate Leonardo DiCaprio, drifting in the icy waters. Only this time, there was no damn door to cling to! And no, of course I’m not exaggerating—how dare you even suggest such a thing? The audacity!

My original plan for the evening? Rotting away at home, marinating in self-pity like a sad, expired sausage floating in vinegar. But no. My so-called friend Mervin—whose apparent life mission was to sabotage my personal tragedies—dragged me out instead.

"Hey, let’s go to ‘Déjà-Vu’! It'll take your mind off things!" he said. What he conveniently failed to mention? This so-called "bar" was, in fact, one of those godforsaken karaoke hellholes. A cursed place overflowing with secondhand embarrassment, vocal disasters of apocalyptic proportions, and a volume level so aggressive that even a jackhammer would politely ask for ear protection.

And, naturally, this bar lived up to my worst expectations—if it did not exceed them. Everyone in the place looked like they were part of the furniture. No one seemed normal. Most of them appeared to have stepped out of some parallel universe where neon colors and sequins had struck a dark and unholy alliance with bad taste. Their outfits had… well, let’s call it personality—but style? Style had died in this establishment a long, long time ago. And no one had ever found the body.

The moment I stepped inside, I was assaulted by an earth-shattering karaoke wail—an auditory catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions. It took me several moments to identify the song, but the repeated screeching of "Zombie" eventually left no doubt.

The singer—though torturer or potential human rights violation would be more accurate—radiated an unshakable belief that he was the next pop sensation. Unfortunately, his voice was somewhere between a broken car radio and a bronchitic crow.

Naturally, Mervin was immediately up in my face: “See? Perfect for heartbreak! You can just scream it all out!”

Oh, I could scream, alright. Preferably my deep, soul-crushing despair—or, alternatively, an official complaint to the World Health Organization about this act of acoustic violence.

Thankfully, the ordeal was over before my eardrums staged a protest. At least for now.

"A ROOOUND OF APPLAUSE FOR OUR WONDERFUL CAKY!" boomed a voice through the room—a voice I would, regrettably, be hearing a lot more of that evening.

For a brief moment, I wondered if I should introduce Caky to my ex. But even I am not that cruel.

We slowly fought our way toward the bar when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a guy in a gold-glitter jacket heading for the stage. And when I say glitter, I mean this thing could have doubled as an emergency beacon for a shipwrecked sailor. I’m fairly certain a few satellites adjusted their flight paths at that very moment.

Once he stood on the stage, his expression was… well, let’s call it intensely focused. He stared at the floor like he was afraid it might disappear the moment he blinked—or that a secret karaoke trapdoor was lying in wait, ready to swallow him whole.

For a second, I actually thought he might bust out a smooth Elvis hip swing. But instead, he started bouncing around like a hyperactive squirrel that had fallen into a vat of energy drinks.

And then he began to sing. Or at least, I assume that’s what he thought he was doing. I couldn’t recognize the song—probably because he placed every note anywhere except where it was supposed to be. Rhythm? Massively overrated. Lyrics? He was clearly singing straight from the depths of his own personal fantasy realm.

"Goldy," Mervin murmured into my ear.

Out of reflex, I blurted out, “What?”—which, of course, was a huge mistake, because that meant I had just triggered Mervin. And I knew exactly what that meant.

When Mervin tells a story, there are two fundamental rules: 1. He always exaggerates beyond reason. 2. Once he starts, there is no stopping him.

"So listen," Mervin began, and I knew this was going to cost me at least three minutes of my life—minutes I would never get back. “Goldy was once madly in love with me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course he was.”

"No, seriously! Every time I came here, he would sprint over and smother me in kisses from head to toe."

I tried to picture it. It was absurd. So, it probably happened exactly like that.

"He even performed a song for me once. With choreography!"

I hesitated. I knew I would regret asking, but curiosity won. “Dare I ask… which song?”

"My Heart Will Go On—in a techno version."

I stared at him.

"With a wind machine."

I blinked, trying to figure out where in this dingy bar they could have possibly squeezed in a wind machine.

"And at the end, he shook glitter out of his sleeves."

"That sounds… intense."

"I told him it was never going to happen between us because he was way too young for me, still barely growing facial hair—whereas I, on the other hand, need a real man."

Ah yes, because that was clearly the biggest issue in this entire story.

And yet, somehow, it did sound weirdly romantic. Which only reminded me—no one had ever done something like that for me. Dwight had never been romantic. If anything, he would have been the iceberg in Titanic.

And yet… I couldn’t get him out of my head.

Eventually, we reached the bar.

The bartender—someone who, in certain circles, would be classified as a late twenty-something—was a rugged-looking guy, the kind who had definitely spent a fair amount of time in gyms and tattoo parlors. He greeted us with a dazzling smile and a wink.

He was pretty much the exact opposite of Dwight, who probably wouldn’t have even looked at him—mostly because Dwight was definitely not a fan of classic opera.

Oh man, the number of operas I sat through with Dwight. It had never really been my thing, but Dwight always insisted that “you grow into it” and that “it comes with the status.” Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

"That’s Dudu," Mervin immediately began yapping at me from the side. "He used to have a huge crush on me."

Of course, Mervin. Absolutely everyone is into you.

"But I don’t just jump into bed with anyone—it’s gotta feel right."

Yes. Right. Especially the blood alcohol level.

As soon as Dudu came over, Mervin obviously took it upon himself to introduce me—by delivering half my breakup story on a silver platter. Mortifying.

Dudu nodded sympathetically and started mixing our cocktails while Mervin continued his monologue, eventually wrapping it up with a heartfelt, "You deserve better than Dwight."

That was actually really sweet of him. Why he had decided that this karaoke bar was the place to help me process my heartbreak, however, remained one of life’s great mysteries.

Dudu finally placed my cocktail in front of me, gave me a playful wink, and said something. But whatever it was, I never got to hear it, because…

"AND NOW, LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT REAL MUSIC SOUNDS LIKE!"

That voice… I knew that voice.

And now, it was clear who it belonged to—a mid-forties guy who was presumably the DJ and was currently storming the stage in a garishly bright Hawaiian shirt. A shirt that, judging by its sheer visual offense, had likely been summoned straight from the Fashion Crimes of the 80s underworld.

Once he reached the stage, he dramatically unbuttoned his shirt from top to bottom—an act that, in multiple countries, could probably be classified as a human rights violation. Beneath it, he revealed a chest hair situation that could only be described as a second-hand mop, repurposed and glued to his torso with misplaced enthusiasm.

From the speakers, some outdated 90s boyband hit began thumping—the musical equivalent of stale beer. And, of course, the DJ was utterly convinced this was his big moment.

And yes, he sang—or rather, he roared. The kind of performance that suggested firmly believed volume alone could compensate for a complete lack of talent, rhythm, and general human decency.

Spoiler: It did not work.

Meanwhile, Mervin was now yelling into my ear, “Did you know this song was written in 1997 by three Scandinavian songwriters who…”

At that moment, my brain activated its emergency shut-off function and simply tuned him out. I know that sounds heartless, but I just couldn’t anymore. Why, for the love of all things holy, did Mervin think that a completely unhinged karaoke bar was the right setting for a music history lecture? Was this some kind of punishment?

I just wanted to survive my heartbreak and somehow make it through the night—preferably without any trivia about obscure Swedish composers.

While the DJ was still “performing” (a term I use loosely) and Mervin was still lecturing, I let my gaze wander around the room.

Dwight would have hated this place. Or maybe not. Maybe right now, he would be sitting in a dark corner, strategically holed up with an exquisite (because overpriced) whiskey, watching everything unfold with that smug intellectual smirk he loved so much.

I didn’t know anymore. Our relationship had been a wreck for weeks—like a sappy romance movie exploding in slow motion, but without a happy ending.

Images of Dwight flickered through my mind: us having breakfast, us at operas… us in the final phase of our relationship, when I was pretty sure he found his phone more interesting than me.

I was jolted out of my thoughts when I saw a puppy. Okay, so that’s not exactly shocking—not since the internet collectively decided that grown adults in dog masks were just a normal part of life now.

But what really escalated the whole situation into the realm of pure confusion was the fact that this particular puppy was wearing a full-on chainmail suit. What was this supposed to be? The clanking canine of Camelot? The first knight of Paw Patrol? A medieval fair on a walkies break?

He padded through the bar, nodding politely at people—which, given the dog mask, looked less like social acknowledgment and more like a malfunctioning bobblehead in a car’s dashboard.

And then he woofed. His whole posture radiated something between "pet me" and "I have a side quest for you."

Every time I see something like this, I always wonder: Are the people under these masks so young that they should actually be in bed already? Or so old and broke that they just can’t afford Botox?

Honestly, maybe that’s the real purpose behind this fashion trend.

Once the DJ finally finished, someone took the stage who could actually sing. But, as we all know, in a karaoke bar, having talent doesn’t mean things won’t spiral into absolute chaos. Because what always happens in places like this?

Exactly. There’s always that one guy—the self-proclaimed karaoke pro—who somehow fails to see the giant monitor with the lyrics right in front of him and instead squints desperately at the tiny, far-away screen across the room.

In doing so, he contorts his body into positions that land somewhere between an experimental dance theater and a live demonstration of severe lower back pain. And sure enough, that was happening right now.

Usually, some kind soul will eventually lean over and whisper, “Uh… you know you could just read the screen in front of you, right?” But not tonight.

Tonight, this guy was doomed to be the tragic hero of his own unnecessarily complicated karaoke saga. And so, he powered through—his voice phenomenal, his sense of direction so nonexistent that I could easily picture him getting lost in the supermarket, staring helplessly at a wall of canned tomatoes.

Naturally, the DJ seized the opportunity to launch himself back onto the stage the second the last note had been sung.

"AND NOW…!" he declared with a grandiose flourish, "we’re all going to sing A Whole New World together!"

Of course. Of course we were. And naturally, he just had to be the princess. Because what else would he be? A harmless background vocalist? Absolutely not.

As he dramatically gazed into the distance with his I-am-a-Disney-star expression, our lost karaoke hero closed his eyes, surrendering fully to the music—fortunately, he knew the lyrics by heart.

And for some unfathomable reason, my brain suddenly conjured up an image of me and Dwight, floating together on a magic carpet.

Okay. That was way too much. I almost burst into tears.

Dudu, who had been watching me, grinned and casually wiped a stray tear off my cheek with his thumb—executing it with the effortless coolness of a man who had seen way too many people cry at this bar.

"Salty tears don’t suit sweet guys," he said with a chuckle.

And, despite everything, I actually smiled. You just had to like this guy.

I took a deep sip of my cocktail. If I was going down tonight, I was at least going down with style.

And then, the inevitable happened when the DJ suddenly popped his head over the bar like a cheerful harbinger of doom.

"So, who’s next?"

He let his gaze sweep dramatically across the room—before, of course, landing right on me.

"How about our melancholic newcomer over there?"

I instinctively ducked my head, as if he had just nominated me for a public execution. My first instinct was to disappear—vanish into my drink, maybe camouflage myself with the cocktail menu. But naturally, Mervin was faster.

Grinning like a sugar-high Cheshire cat, he declared, “Yes! Him! He’s heartbroken—he needs to scream it out!”

The DJ looked at me with a mix of enthusiasm and gentle pity. "Nothing heals heartbreak better, trust me! I’ve seen more relationships fall apart than weddings happen—but karaoke? Karaoke is always loyal."

Seriously? Is my life some kind of trashy soap opera for everyone to enjoy?!

Before I could protest, the DJ had already doomed me by adding my name to the list.

"Oh God," I muttered, cold sweat forming on my forehead. "What the hell am I supposed to sing?!"

Mervin, the Judas of my trust, simply smirked. “Don’t worry—I picked a song for you.”

Moments later, I found myself standing on the small, wobbly stage, microphone in hand, while my inner self desperately bashed its head against an imaginary wall.

My heart was pounding. Or maybe that was just the bass shaking the entire bar with such force that I wasn’t even sure if my circulatory system was still functioning.

The monitor lit up, revealing the song: "This Used to Be Our Song."

I WANTED TO FLEE. But my legs had apparently conspired against me, refusing to move out of sheer spite.

The DJ grinned at me like a sadistic game show host who knew his contestant was about to fail spectacularly.

I took a breath. My voice shook. For a second, nothing came out. Just silence. A vast, gaping silence that stretched into eternity inside my head. And then—somehow, as if my body had made the decision for me—I let out a weak, wobbly: "Uuuuh…"

It was off-key. It was hesitant. But it was there. And suddenly, something inside me cracked open.

With every beat, every lyric, I felt the memories of Dwight rushing back—raw, unfiltered, an emotional avalanche crashing over me. Anger. Disappointment. Sadness. I let it all flood in—and this time, I didn’t fight it. Take this, bitch!

I was definitely not Whitney Houston. That much was clear. But every note came straight from the wreckage of my soul. And—cringeworthy as it sounded—it changed something.

As the final note faded into the air, I just stood there. For a moment, I forgot everything—how embarrassing this was, how off-key I had been, how badly I had wanted to run.

Then I saw them. Tears. In the eyes of a few audience members. Or… maybe they were just reflecting the stage lights. But let me have this moment, okay?

And then—applause. A round of applause I had never expected.

Back at the bar, Dudu silently slid a tissue and a fresh drink toward me.

"Good job. Seriously," he said, with the casual wisdom of a man who had seen far too many people break down at this very spot. "Sometimes, you just gotta let it out."

I exhaled heavily, as if I had just run a marathon of emotions. Something in me felt lighter.

Of course, my heart wasn’t magically fixed. But for a brief moment, I felt like I was coming up for air—out of the swamp of sadness, out of the endless thought spiral, out of the toilet bowl of melancholy.

And then—BOOM. The DJ’s voice blasted through the mic, as if he had sniffed out my sentimental moment and decided to obliterate it on the spot.

"AND NOW… CAKY!"

Of course. And there Caky was, already stumbling onto the stage, ready to butcher the next song beyond recognition. I let out a quiet laugh. This was just too absurd. This entire chaotic, unhinged karaoke hellscape—and yet, somehow, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed.

The rest of the night blurred into an endless loop of tragic performances. The crowd thinned out, which only gave the DJ more and more chances to sing. Unfortunately, Caky stayed.

The karaoke pro, however, had vanished quickly—probably off to misread song lyrics somewhere else. I sighed. Some things never change.

Maybe karaoke was a form of therapy. A place where you didn’t have to be perfect—where it didn’t matter if you hit the notes or missed entirely, whether you knew the lyrics or just faked it. A place where you could scream, sing, rage, or cry—and no one would judge you for it.

And as I took my last sip of my drink, I made a vow. Dwight might have broken my heart. But my dignity? That, at least, I had sung out loud for the world to hear.

***

Around three in the morning, I stumbled out into the night with Mervin. My voice was wrecked. My head was swimming from the drinks. And the memories of Dwight? Yeah, they still hurt. But it felt… different.

A tiny flicker of hope sparked inside me. Maybe, one day, I’d laugh again. Maybe, one day, I’d be truly happy again. Maybe even here. In this run-down, deafening, utterly chaotic—yet strangely liberating—karaoke madness.

Okay, okay… you’re not buying this dramatic, cathartic ending, are you?

Fine. Here’s what actually happened. After finally shaking off Mervin—which required more patience than dealing with a government hotline—I made my way back to the bar.

By now, it was significantly emptier. I, however, was significantly fuller. And also feeling… well, let’s just say the kind of way one feels after spending an entire evening being more or less subtly hit on.

Dudu laughed when he saw me return to the bar—probably because he already knew exactly where this was heading. And indeed, I didn’t get home until 6 a.m. Not my home, though. Dudu’s. Let’s just say, Dudu had excellent ways of making me forget about my ex. Multiple times. And by sunrise… Dwight? Who’s Dwight? I had much better things to think about.

A few days later, Dudu and I saw each other again—sober this time. But, as with all things in life, it turned out that real life is a lot like karaoke—with enough alcohol, even a chainsaw can sound like Pavarotti. Which isn’t to say you can’t have fun sometimes. Which we absolutely did.

Fast-forward to now—much to Mervin’s shock— Déjà-Vu has officially become my regular bar. And as a tiny bonus?

For fun, I once casually suggested to Dudu that Mervin thought that he was secretly into him. Dudu, naturally, milked this information for all it was worth—and gave Mervin the shock of his life. But that… That’s another story. However, one thing has never changed: The DJ is still singing.