Pushy

Sunday, September 20, 2009

It was anticlimatic to most: people drinking PBR, swaying to some music I couldn't be bothered to recognize. If I'm being honest, it was anticlimatic to me, too. Just all the same people I always see acting like they're not all terrified of turning 30 and still being at the same shitty party. Linda was talking to a tranny.

Linda: (whispering to me) is there weed on my lip? I'm so stoned. You should make friends. Then you can be too stoned to leave, too.
Tranny: (passing Linda an overly phallic pipe) So if you wanna go to the Bob Dylan show, I can absolutely get you in. You just have to wait by the back door. Wear something exactly like that. You know, casual. Flannel. I'll be wearing a yellow mini, but we can't have too many of us dressed like that.

I felt like I should be amused but I was too busy feeling like an asshole for going to a party where I knew I'd see He Who Shall Not Be Named with his new boo. As I halfway partook in halfway conversations, I couldn't help but think how on the other side of the screen door, the dude I'd lusted for for months was pretend fighting with a 19 year old. Pretend fighting as a method of foreplay which is both fascinating and gross if it's someone you used to fuck that you're observing. I wondered if he was too drunk or too outside of the realm of morality to recognize how rude he was, even if we were attemping (again) to be just friends. I began to form this half-assed daydream about exacting my revenge, dry-humping on the dancefloor, etc but as always, I grew tired when I realized that there is no way to make someone give a shit about you if they don't give a shit about you. And he does not, will not ever give a shit about me.

The weirdest part, though, was that when I actually thought about how it was that I felt, I noticed that I felt nothing except kinda bored. It was like realizing that my favorite toy, the one I'd been playing with for months, was actually a piece of fossilized dogshit that had turned white from the sun. It had no value. It had no purpose. It didn't even smell like shit anymore. It was just a tiny little nothing.

I worked my way through the room, hugging every person I knew and answering questions about my impending move. How the fuck did they already know, I wondered. I hadn't even uttered the words. Was everyone at this bullshit party fucking psycic? No matter. This was as good as any other night for an impromptu going away party. I played it up, telling people I'd miss them, I'd write, I'd be back, I'd give Bianca a hug for them.

On my way out, I passed Voldemort again. He barely looked at me and when he did, his eyes were red and watery. I knew he was shitfaced. I didn't say anything. Instead, I smiled, extended my arm and offered up a truce in the form of a fist bump. He looked vaguely guilty, like a child that shit in the bathtub, but I was beaming, thinking that if I'm lucky, I'd never see that silly little fuck again.