A friend of mine told me that he wanted to read something where I sound-off. And that got me thinking – I mean, really thinking – about how actualized anyone would have to be to convincingly flip shit on the perils of Capitalism, inherent flaws of Socialism or the cultural irrelevance of “Gossip Girl.” I’m not. I do, however, recognize something dissolute about the Granville Strip on a Saturday night.
I’m ready to go out. I’m tired. I’m sleep deprived. There’s work to be done. But against my better judgment, in the pursuit of something I’m not totally sure of, I throw on my blazer, grab a pen and walk out the door. It’s going to be a late night.
I’ve felt it before, this strange energy; but it’s cold and wet, and fall seems like a time when people are particularly unruly and strung-out. Fluorescent lights distort the puddles on the sidewalk: it feels like the world is on drugs or I’m on another planet. Platinum blonde girls in short skirts and spiked heals parade the streets like the SS on Kristallnacht, ripping out hearts and smashing egos. Bass pours from clubs like the pulse of a manic universe, engulfing me like a vacuum. How I keep it together, I don’t know.
I spin out of these weekends hung-over, under slept and left wondering how much coffee I’ll have to drink to realize what the moral of the story is. I need a nap – I know this. I set my alarm for 20 minutes and turn off the lights. But before my head hits the pillow, a thought flashes…feeling the emptiness of my bed, I remember the girl from last night.
The glow from the computer screen dimly lights the picture on my wall of two girls kissing. The allure of the white radiance fogs my head. I can’t sleep because all I can think about is how tired I am. Deadlines are toxic.
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