it was half past 2 am when i started writing. we literally stumbled home, keeping ourselves up by grasping on to one another, the two female voices complaining all the while. a real shit-talk walk home with a boy in between, a friend who could only mutter between breaks “ah i’m fucked up.” a real rude strength to our loudness, confrontational and deep but with every letter sounding from lips, the meaning was obvious and we meant it all. we meant well in our sober states, always. but the passion of words just sort of look up at you after you’ve spit them all over yourself and there’s not much to clean up with when you’ve got that memory of a leering brow furrowed in such a mean tight face. i addressed the problem and it was never solved, so we drink and get mad and complain about masses of garbage and our shame on another’s behalf. we were angry. undulating from our jawlines like canines when a stranger walks past the window and prompts you to be - friendly.
i had been out that night early. not much to drink over or complain about except my burger was too rare. i expected poetry, real deep and raw words from vulnerable people on a stage that i could gawk at, consume their nerves with my too-pale beer and twiddle my fingers to the rhythm except thats not what happened. turned out as an accidental trip to hear a dedication to Kerouac. i didn’t complain, yet. the eventual passage of time and the thought of uncooked beef in my stomach made a dasher out of me but i held on till the end, till my bladder would allow anyway and only scampered off when the last speaker recited a lengthy quote to close the festivities. I jittered my way on foot back to the pitiful casita and hurried my legs into a skirt and attached adornments onto my ears, hanging harshly against my soft curls that dangled neatly but only after 30 minutes of laboring behind a mirror. i was going out, going to meet my friends as mentioned previously at an establishment i fancy for a wednesday night. but the twists in outcomes brushed me up and i got a call from an old - friend - my ex-boyfriend who i recently vowed not to see until my overwhelming hatred stopped bubbling over him, which like all great things, takes time. however, i agreed to go out for a late night ice cream run and made words with my body language that i didn’t want to be touched. after that jam was settles, an hour and a half late and a few texts from my friends later i managed to meet up.
alcohol is exchanged for friendship. i am being egged on here, really just encouraged to drink up and get wacky. wacky as my company which never seems as harsh as it really is until later, when the real “fun” begins and it hits you hard. the night was going by - and i swooned over my long time crush, as i often do on wednesday nights, as hopes are high that i will run into him here and as of late - hopes have been fulfilled. a little later i’m spotted. i did the hopeless romantic thing and “lucked out” by sitting with my friends who he had sat with earlier and made the initiation by retrieving his beer. we sat and chatted for an hour - i was elated. can only speak for myself, i’ve got no real measure for these things until i’m drunk and confident and mumble, as i did on our walk home, “its obvious he loves me back, right?” the word thats easy to use when feelings are less involved than ever. like picking out your childhood fantastical romancer and telling all your friends which one is the love of your life. the mellow-drama of it all, keeps life simple and carefree. and like a kid, i got giddy over him again.