I stood in line for a rock band. They sometimes soothe some of my pain and sometimes create
other pain.
In line I sometimes talk to people and they sometimes tell me about their pain. I don't talk about mine because I know that they care as little about it as I care about theirs. Sometimes I touch their shoulder as they talk and nod and look past them and wonder how I forgot my flask.
Several people in front of me saved too many spots for too many people. The line swells like a clogged vein, and I decide that I can't be next to them once we go inside the concert because they are fat women with hollow eyes who laugh too loud at things deserving of a chuckle. And they cut in line.
I decide I'll stand in the back once the vein spurts into the building.
I don't mind fat, and I'm sometimes horny for fat women, but the fat on these women isn't the fat of life, but the fat of
giving up.
I decide to focus fake hate upon the fat, and I glare... Hoping we'll make eye contact and they'll see that I know where their fat came from.
Another fat shows up and the vein gets thicker and closer to rupturing and I get more excited about my hate. She begins passing out name tags to her "Facebook" friends and it makes me sick but I'm glad I don't get one stuck to my black shirt even though I've made friends with a nice couple and they do get name tags.
I'm also aware that I WANT a name tag. I think I'd tell her my name is "fuck you, bitch." Or I might take it and write down my real name and be happy that she
included me.
My friends save my place and I go to a nearby hotel and throw down a double whiskey (though I make the bartender guess WHAT I want a double of). And the drink helps but also somehow fixes nothing. As I get back in line I notice the vein is slightly thinner and I wonder what to do with
my hate.
Then the line goes in and I end up far away from the fat and I'm happy and I stay up front. And the girl behind me has real eyes and real pain and I feel bad for us in the way that always turns into joy because, fuck... We feel.
She is tall and overweight and aware of it, and she's with a friend who is gorgeous and will never have to try to be.
I look at the tall girl and ask if she has ever tried to kill herself and she says, "yes" and I tell her I'm glad she failed. And I hope it was a better thing to ask her than, "what's your favorite song."
She won't remember me, but I think I want to hold her and kiss
her deeply.
Then the band plays and I heal a little and I slip a little more. And I might have
cried.
Maybe.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
