If there's one class of people I
truly loathe in this world, it's the optimists... although I wouldn't call
myself a pessimist, and I'm not one of those assholes who smugly calls himself
a "realist" and then marinates in the stunning cleverness of
plaigarizing exhausted clichés while all of his friends silently resist the urge
to break his teeth. No, I would call myself "not an idiot"; it
retains all the arrogance of naming oneself a realist, with none of the
elementary wordplay. I don't know if this is important, but I also tend to
break the asshole's teeth instead of allowing him to marinate. Silently
resisting urges gives me a headache. Some people say you're supposed to drink a
lot of water when you get a headache. Sometimes I break those peoples' teeth,
too. Usually my headache goes away.
It happened at 11:17 PM on May 18,
2000 AD. It wasn't anything of particular importance, but I wanted to use a
literary device to draw your attention to something trivial because it made me
grin when I did it. Maybe now you'll take care not to gloss over this part and
forget it later, thereby depriving yourself of the profound revelations this
thrilling literature is bound to produce later on. That would be foolish. This
is the second least important part of the book.
I was staring with perverse fixation
at the most luscious assembly of human flesh I'd ever feasted eyes upon. Or
maybe I was just seventeen years old and super backed up because I hadn't
beaten off once in the last forty-two minutes. It's hard to tell with these
things. She was idly chatting up some douchebag with an eyebrow piercing on the
fringe of an orgiastic throng of suburban white kids demonstrating the volatile
chemical collision of drugs, alcohol, and aggressive adolescent hormones.
There was a time when dancing was
considered an artform, an elegant physical expression of music and the human
soul. I wasn't around then, but it seems boring. It also seems less like the “End
of Days” than a pack of ecstasy-riddled teenagers sweating all over each other
in one of their parents' basements, but you won't hear me complaining.
Anyways, I didn't really know what
to say to this magnificent broad, so I just stood there, looking like I was
trying not to piss my pants.
To this day, that's one of my
signature moves.
The good thing about these types of
gatherings is that no one notices when you're standing alone in a corner
because they're way too busy utilizing passable social skills and substance
abuse to find someone to slowly erode their genitals with. I wanted that
erosion. I needed that erosion. So I flailed out for the nearest thing that
felt like a container of alcohol on the table behind me, carelessly toppling
seven plastic cups of dirty beer and plastic spheres in the process. I launched
into action like the goddamn Batman Himself and managed to rescue four before
they spilled, suspending them at various critical angles on the table with my
right foot raised eighteen inches off the floor for some reason; balance maybe.
I like to think I was making an excellent impression.
The container that made it into my
mouth first carried an invigorating blend of cheap vodka and some gummy worms.
Flush with the all the rich swagger that accompanies an exquisitely crafted
beverage, I cut across the dance floor towards my target.
"Oh... Hey, Tim."
I wasn't expecting such a warm
reception. I still didn't know what to say, so I decided to go with a
compliment.
"Nice shoes..." Not off to
a great start, "...do you wanna fuck?"
To this day, that's one of my
signature moves.
And, in the glorious sexual chaos
which defines the aforementioned chemical collision of drugs, alcohol, and
aggressive adolescent hormones, it worked. Fuck your eyebrow piercing.
Unfortunately, all that vodka
decided to have its way with me right about the same time I was going to
clumsily have my way with her, and I passed out with my forehead resting on her
pubes. Allegedly.
That's another Tim Pullman
signature; and, despite consistent use of the first two manuevers, it was a
year before I got an opportunity to try the third one again. High school never
forgets.
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