It Only Sounds Good If You Say It Out Loud

I still have my sunglasses on. I'm pretending to doze. I just don't have anything to say (Or maybe I don't have anything good to say). I've spent the last two hours training my face to be dead, slack. I've pulled back into my head. This was a mistake. I already know that I'm not going to enjoy myself.

I still have my sunglasses on. There's less and less excuse for this, the sun has gone down. I can feel the good time in the air but I feel detached from it. Like I'm wearing a radiation suit. I don't want to drink. I don't want to talk. I don't want to act like things are normal. I don't want to hang out. But I know it's important to be here. More medicine. Swallow.

I still have my sunglasses on. Okay, okay - list the good things, pan for gold: Beautiful Mess was amazing, they put on a great live show, it was fun to watch Amber with her friends, to watch her work the room, her friends all seemed really cool, and I enjoyed exchanging filthy jokes with the band's lead singer, Michael.

I still have my sunglasses on. I had a dream the other day. I was reading a book and I had one of those moments where you think, 'I just need to close my eyes for five seconds'. So, I closed my eyes and fell asleep (which is unusual for me) and suddenly.......I was standing in a circular office that I KNEW was The Mayor's Office. And, sure enough, behind a huge desk, there's a man...The Mayor. And on the Mayor's desk, there's a RED BLINKING PHONE. I look down at myself and I'm wearing a superhero costume, a yellow costume with a cape. And standing next to me is another superhero, wearing a blue costume. I don't know if he's my sidekick or I'm his or if we've just teamed up for this one adventure. Suddenly, Blue Costume's cell rings and he answers it and gives me and The Mayor a gesture that I just know means, 'I have to take this'. I look at the Mayor and he looks annoyed and he gives a look at the RED BLINKING PHONE and then at me and gives me a gesture that tells me, 'SURE, take your time ASSHOLE, it's just THE CRISIS PHONE ringing'. Then I wake up.

I still have my sunglasses on. Holding patterns. Every other word I won't let myself type. Composing an essay in my head. Holding patterns. Ready for next month. Ready for next year. It's not The End that makes me angry - it's living the next couple of weeks in the remains. I'm ready to pull the tooth, tun the page. Instead, it's this last little wiggle, this last little paper cut. We haven't been friends for so long and now we have to be friendly until we can arrive at the place we've been runnning toward for the last three years.