Feast of friends. “Alive!” she cried. The scene, a party: Hootie and the Blowish on the stereo. I didn’t say it was a good party. Lonely and looking for someone under the seashells in the parlour: a tightrope walker, a hitchhiker or a long distance runner, anyone’ll do.
Conversations crawl up the wall and drip into little plastic cups. Idiots love to bury gods; theodicy tries to rehabilitate them: kill ‘em all, I say, and let whoever’s running the show sort out the mess. Time to decide: are we being torpid or vapid?
Politely decline drugs, but accept drinks – Buckley’s of this working out, still p-p-p-poker face, p-p-p-poker face.
The rehearsed stories get the least laughs, so play it cool, improvise, be outraged. Torpid torpid torpid vapid torpid – come on! Steer that fucking bitch! This isn’t working.
The favoured strategy: to look cool whilst walking away from people. That should do it. Walk past some ravens, reach out and RAWWK! Not weird. That’s not weird at all. Just a little more and you’ll be on the other block, safe.
Written on Wednesday, 27 June 2012