outside the concrete walls of a club we would never go into. monochrome of red, cowboy hats, sequins, huge obnoxious platforms, an acetate spectacle of ho regalia, to the teeth, to the floor. these were just the people standing outside. the outer walls had been fashioned into something cheeky, a set of ATMs? refrigerator doors? the open arms of a meat locker. I can’t remember, I wasn’t looking closely enough. Valentine’s night. we said we wouldn't celebrate this, we have to celebrate this, we surely might at least observe... the revelers. a couple of dudes stood more or less in a public tree planter, passing back and forth a bottle of water -- “are you good dude? you good? man I love you bro, you good tho?” talking each other through states of intoxication, swaying periodically into the indifferent trunk of a palm tree, one or more hardly conscious for it. there wasn’t anywhere to go, rather there wasn’t anywhere to go inside. we kept walking, we wound up hovering in a back booth at a familiar bar, sticking our backs to the itchy vinyl seats. a drunk and friendly fellow from a neighboring booth rated us all in a hierarchy of attractiveness, more unsolicited feedback from strangers, more tequila, more tequila, more tequila. more tequila was spilt that was shared. there I was, too drunk to fuck. i’m so relieved. is it fucked to be relieved of the burden -- of having to seek fun, to be amusing, of being vital, of performing being vital, of ignoring the stretched yawns, the exasperated micro-expressions, of my peers, of my own? only god knows my kink is staying home in a comically oversized sweater, picking trivially at a guitar, letting the hours smear away like watercolor. who needed them? what good were they? use them up, more are coming for now. for now I can live in gratitude -- the former life of different exhaustion, suddenly removed. despite everything, and i’m painfully aware as you must be of everything, there’s a thrill in it.
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
gracieabrams