This is the story that never ends

“Come on in, let me show you what a state I’m in.”
-Coldplay

Yes, that is the same quote on my Myspace profile, and yes, Coldplay. Insert splattered rotten vegetables here. Perhaps, you have grown weary of the seemingly never-ending story (please take note of italics) of a road trip to nowhere exactly, embarked upon by a pair of the genetically similar, but alas I shall continue, but not before addressing a question posed by a sexually frustrated ex-English professor of mine – frustrated because he discovered that sadly, attraction is not only mental, but physical, and while there existed a certain chemistry of the minds, there was none of the carnal. Indeed, I did nearly engage in an illicit, steam filled, and possibly (but more than likely allowed) forbidden affair with a college professor.

He asked, as I sat crunching a sweet apple between autumn’s chattering teeth, wrapped in a moth eaten sweater, watching the film Harold and Maude (how ironic), “Where do these strange, and if I may, absurd thoughts of yours come from?” At the time I was the tender age of 20, irritated by the vocal interruption, and I knew not of their origin, but as a ripened 23-year old, I say, “From my depressing music, inherited insanity, compulsive staring, and from the men with whom I become frequently infatuated.” Before I unfold the next chapter in my anti-climatic story, I would like to take a moment to thank all of my inspirations for their priceless influence over the strange and absurd thoughts radiating from my gourd shaped head – Thanks.

“I play so dumb because I know some of these star-struck small talk art fucks are no fun.”
-Atmosphere

I scanned the half-moon of art fucks now bathed in the low light, their physical faults oddly illuminated. They in return quizzically stared at my drooping smile, spoke of the art world, the nation’s political turmoil, and the exploitation of the world at the hands of the bourgeoisie. I surveyed my knowledge of communism, and nudged the ribs of Joey as if to say, is that us? – But he only scratched the legs of his chair to the left in an escape from my angular elbow. The night’s assimilation into snobbery had begun, unwilling and unrelenting I threw a tantrum of mass proportions, feigning a desire for 25ml of unmixed liquor, but I received a narrowed glare begging me to be cool. I drew circles in my beer and lent an ear to the refined conversation now speeding the dimly lit circular track. The girl to my right made a collage from Trojan condoms, the boy to her right used screen-printing to make t-shirts advocating social upheaval, the next painted with his own feces in protest of America’s wasteful ways, and the girl chosen as the prey of the wolf to my left made clothes that were both biodegradable and edible.

My turn arrived, “I voted for George Bush, twice.” A silence deeper than that which we had washed in on the drive splashed the circle. Joey eerily chuckled through clenched teeth, “She is only kidding.” I was bored, listening as he dropped profuse excuses for my behavior, “She is a writer, and you have to know the type” (wink wink). I have never interacted well with the snob class, unable to depart from my white trash roots, and conform to tasteful thinking. I made a mental list of more conversation halting, awkward silence initiating words until nudged by an angular elbow reminiscent of my own.

“Can you go get me another beer?” I grazed the pastures filled with attractive males. Finally making my way to the bar, I placed both elbows on the counter and leaned into the edge. The ends of my hair stuck to the bar, and I, finding this amusing, pushed my bent figure deeper.

“Can I help you?” The bartender asked, followed with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. “Yes, can I have two pints of Blue Moon please?” “Are those with oranges?” He asked as the peach colored liquid streamed into the glasses. “Only if it makes them more feminine and what do I call it….artsy?” He glanced over at my origin and smiled. “It most certainly does.”

I cupped both glasses and held them in a paranoid’s grasp, close to my chest, with arms ejected at both sides, in fear of thieves and powdered drugs. The room had begun to fill with the sweat of bodies threatening to drop, mating calls deafening, and sharp heels eager to injure. The sloshing liquid flowed over the rims in my hurry back to the table, clearing a beer flavored path trail marked with oranges down my shirt. The group had bowed their heads in conversation, the secrets of their craft too precious to leak. I set the glasses down and peered down at the tops of heads sniffing the scents of animal tested shampoo, and the raw materials of sweat shop labor. Sensing a familiar scent Joey pinched my nomadic gaze with his and growled. I shrugged my shoulders and mouthed a well drawn yeah right.