Wednesday, February 7, 2007

A Mess. It's Been a While.

The molecules of the room are frantic and you're buzzing around. You're one of only two people in the room, anyway. Oh, no. Wait. There's three. There's definitely a tweaky energy in there and you're drinking after a night of drinking at five, four, sometime in the morning. You don't have that pit feeling yet, though, because the sun hasn't started peeking out yet. Still dark. You're ok.

You wait to talk...wait until the conversation or bits of loud non sequitur spin your way, feeling a good-natured, affectionate hatred towards those whose turn it is to talk. Coke's the storyteller's best friend. While it's not your turn, your head preoccupies itself with blahblahblah: men you've known, men you've more than known, men you've slept with... You then start taking a businesslike, systematic look at your dirty attitude towards men. Really dirty? Or are you just being extra judgemental of yourself due to the powder. Not dirty, you decide. Just plentiful. You think about it as if you are putting together a Rolodex. For research. Yeah, research. Except you're not researching anything.

To many of them, these men, you're not at all emotionally attached. In your mind, your fucking them isn't even a blip on their radar because it's not a blip on yours. It doesn't reach them and it doesn't reach you.

Then. Then there are the ones you never fucked, but felt more strongly towards, anyway.

The one, skinny as a rail now, who used to be fat as a child.

The one who taught you to play pool.

The one who has a class picture of himself in a pale-pink knit tie and black button-down shirt.

The one you loved, who insisted on talking about the ex. Or the exes.

Why do you have such a morbid fascination for hearing about the ex? About all of their exes? Why do you love hearing it so much when every single solitary motherfucking time you get jealous of a life that happened before you whywhywhy?

You start to feel like you maybe should think about this sometime, when you're sober. Try to remember to do so.

Buckup and pay attention, now, because it's your turn to talk.

1 comment:

literati messiah said...

Whenever I try and make myself remember to write/talk about the things that go bump in my head when I am loaded...I fail. Because I'm motherfucking fly like that.