@vitalphenomena / spirit: that’s code for ‘i hate strong women’.
i'm more of a man of drawing rooms than bass-heavy clubs where sweaty boys sniff hard drugs off the back of their fists and hope that the three-hundred-pound bouncers covered in menacing tattoos and europop don't kick them to the curb and strung-out, free-spirited, live-laugh-loving women bounce in perfect harmony with pupils the size of the fucking moon. see, this isn't my scene. loud, ear-drum-piercing, and stiflingly warm like flies trapped around a heat lamp.
i am in hell. that is the long and short of it — for all my sins, for all i've done to tar my soul and blacken everything i once stood for, this is... hell. a special, delicious type of purgatory that only targets the coke-addled and degenerate youths. is this what i've been reduced down to? sticky-sweet drinks and fencing off coke bumps from the biggest douchebags in the country?
the bar is safe. the bar is... well, it's not clean, but as far as i can see, clean from vomit. so instead of wading through ass-grabbing techoslut men, i get to watch it all unfold from the safety of a rum and coke.
i'll be honest, i'm not listening that closely. you've caught my attention — in the midst of a crowd, pushing away the coke, almost definitely pulled out here by your immature friends that you would be so much better off without... i think you'd prefer my life too, than to be contributing to the city's trash problem along with dumb and dumber either side of you. hemingway. joyce. what's your poison, really? underneath the go-hard partying, there's something about y—
"hm? — oh. you're probably right. nothing says 'i love strong women' more than grabbing ass. you know, in a feminist way."