| dewy decimal |
2004-06-01 - 2:44 a.m.
Everet has these friends; a modest string of 18 year old fags and one hag. Most of the time, they're just lurking in my periphery. Huddled in the dark guts of the club, they stir their virgin drinks amongst the drunken swarm of yapping scenesters.
They're good looking but not visible. Absorptive yet impermeable; it's like their phone numbers are blocked but they still have access to your hotline. I can't think of any other analogy than that. D'you know what I mean?
They don't do drugs. They don't steal. They don't do the fucked up shit I did when I was eighteen, but there is a thickness in their eyes. This real bitter slant in their stares, that look so far out that there isn't the strength to bring them back in. Shit, I know I was a bad kid but I don't recall ever being so bitter as them. The way they hiss and roll their eyes at the things beneath them, behaviors that I associate with wild cats in famine.
I guess I'm just a little intrigued because people have always been able to take from me whatever they wanted.
And you know, as high as I was, there was still nothing more exciting than a first handshake, at least, when I was eighteen.