(no subject)
How close, how close do you wanna be
to a ticking time bomb like me?
The woman singing had a warbly voice that made me cringe slightly. Thankfully, the bad accoustics and the drunk guy fighting with the security guard at my side were drowning out the noise. I turned to my date, who was nodding rhythmically with his eyes closed. He had that pained look on his face, the I'm feeling this music look. I decided I'd probably turn down any invitations he might make for a second date. This place was a dump. This place a was a dive.
Cuz I can pull you in closer
in closer to me
if youuu let me.
She crooned on, holding the microphone close to her mouth so that her hot breath almost emanated from the speakers in the corners. Maybe she'll eat it, I mused to myself, in a fellatio finale extravaganza. I almost laughed at the thought but she started singing (yelling) "ahhhhhhh" as if she were in pain, and I cringed again. I turned to look at the drunk and the security guard, who were apparently getting along better.
Don't stop, don't talk, just stay that way
I say come what may
if I pull you closer
closer to me
youuu will love me.
Youuu will love me.
Youuu will love me.
Youuu...
I yelled to my date, "I'M GETTING A DRINK AT THE BAR," but he didn't hear me. His eyes were shut and he was making movements like a snake made of lincoln logs moving in time, vaguely, with the music. I couldn't imagine focusing my attention on this god-awful music.
Youuu...
Youuu...
Youuu...
I left for the bar and got a cosmopolitan. The bartender gypped me, probably because I'm a girl and he thought I didn't know what a cosmopolitan should taste like because I picked it off of Sex and the City, but I did know, and he added way too much cranberry juice. It was as red as a Bloody Mary and I sat down at one corner of the bar and sipped at my tangy blood red drink, pretty, but uninspiring. And it didn't get me out of this dive. I could see my date swaying dangerously close to the drunk, who was dancing along to the music under close watch of the guard.
Youuu...
I didn't know how long this song lasted but it seemed impossibly long.
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill...waaant me...
The singer was belting out the words like a screeching bat dying in a cave after finding out his whole life he'd been afraid of the dark. I finished off my cranberry juice dashed with vodka and went to the bathroom. It was a green, dank bathroom, dark as the alley nextdoor lit only by a street lamp with one of its bulbs broken. The toilet bowls were green, all the ceramic was green, and whether the floors had started out that way, in this light and on this night, they were green as well. The singer was now a muted gargle screeching away. The woman washing her face when I came in the door quickly looked up and looked at me nervously. She had runny mascara and looked like pale green chalk in the pastel lighting, and looked back just as quickly when she saw that I was no one important. She looked at her face in the dull mirror and jerkily turned off the faucet. It made screeching monkey noises that hurt my ears. I wondered briefly what drugs she was on and who she was running from. Grabbing a towel from the package left on top of the industrial sized trash can as she left, she pushed through the bathroom door, letting in the ending strums of the Youuu song as the door swung open and closed.
I didn't have any real purpose in coming to the bathroom so I just washed my hands. I used the sink next to the one the woman was at before, and I saw stains like my cranberry juice cocktail on the ceramic surrounding its drain. But I didn't know what it meant to me, and I left the bathroom even sooner than I thought, because just then, someone in the far stall was retching, and I decided the singing was minimally better than listening to that.
I went back to the bar and ordered another cosmo. "Less cranberry juice this time," I told the bartender. As bartenders tend to do when they've made mistakes, this one didn't look me straight in the eye. Which was fine, because I could stare all I wanted at the scar on his cheek as he mixed my cosmo in the tumbler. He had some scar the size of my kitchen knife running from one side of his head to the other, top to bottom, or bottom to top depending on how you looked at it. The scar tissue surrounding the wound was a mass of confused skin trying to get back into its normal place and finding no place to go but outward and into open air. It was all made worse by his pock-marked skin, and I was glad he didn't look at me as he shook the tumbler and poured the liquid into the martini glass. It came out smoothly, brokenly, as it covered the distance over crushed and melting pieces of ice, and then smoothly again. I turned around in the dirty wooden bar stool and couldn't find my date, but I wasn't worried. I'd find a cab, or call one if they didn't run in neighborhoods like these. I turned back around. This time, my cosmo was pink.
to a ticking time bomb like me?
The woman singing had a warbly voice that made me cringe slightly. Thankfully, the bad accoustics and the drunk guy fighting with the security guard at my side were drowning out the noise. I turned to my date, who was nodding rhythmically with his eyes closed. He had that pained look on his face, the I'm feeling this music look. I decided I'd probably turn down any invitations he might make for a second date. This place was a dump. This place a was a dive.
Cuz I can pull you in closer
in closer to me
if youuu let me.
She crooned on, holding the microphone close to her mouth so that her hot breath almost emanated from the speakers in the corners. Maybe she'll eat it, I mused to myself, in a fellatio finale extravaganza. I almost laughed at the thought but she started singing (yelling) "ahhhhhhh" as if she were in pain, and I cringed again. I turned to look at the drunk and the security guard, who were apparently getting along better.
Don't stop, don't talk, just stay that way
I say come what may
if I pull you closer
closer to me
youuu will love me.
Youuu will love me.
Youuu will love me.
Youuu...
I yelled to my date, "I'M GETTING A DRINK AT THE BAR," but he didn't hear me. His eyes were shut and he was making movements like a snake made of lincoln logs moving in time, vaguely, with the music. I couldn't imagine focusing my attention on this god-awful music.
Youuu...
Youuu...
Youuu...
I left for the bar and got a cosmopolitan. The bartender gypped me, probably because I'm a girl and he thought I didn't know what a cosmopolitan should taste like because I picked it off of Sex and the City, but I did know, and he added way too much cranberry juice. It was as red as a Bloody Mary and I sat down at one corner of the bar and sipped at my tangy blood red drink, pretty, but uninspiring. And it didn't get me out of this dive. I could see my date swaying dangerously close to the drunk, who was dancing along to the music under close watch of the guard.
Youuu...
I didn't know how long this song lasted but it seemed impossibly long.
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill...waaant me...
The singer was belting out the words like a screeching bat dying in a cave after finding out his whole life he'd been afraid of the dark. I finished off my cranberry juice dashed with vodka and went to the bathroom. It was a green, dank bathroom, dark as the alley nextdoor lit only by a street lamp with one of its bulbs broken. The toilet bowls were green, all the ceramic was green, and whether the floors had started out that way, in this light and on this night, they were green as well. The singer was now a muted gargle screeching away. The woman washing her face when I came in the door quickly looked up and looked at me nervously. She had runny mascara and looked like pale green chalk in the pastel lighting, and looked back just as quickly when she saw that I was no one important. She looked at her face in the dull mirror and jerkily turned off the faucet. It made screeching monkey noises that hurt my ears. I wondered briefly what drugs she was on and who she was running from. Grabbing a towel from the package left on top of the industrial sized trash can as she left, she pushed through the bathroom door, letting in the ending strums of the Youuu song as the door swung open and closed.
I didn't have any real purpose in coming to the bathroom so I just washed my hands. I used the sink next to the one the woman was at before, and I saw stains like my cranberry juice cocktail on the ceramic surrounding its drain. But I didn't know what it meant to me, and I left the bathroom even sooner than I thought, because just then, someone in the far stall was retching, and I decided the singing was minimally better than listening to that.
I went back to the bar and ordered another cosmo. "Less cranberry juice this time," I told the bartender. As bartenders tend to do when they've made mistakes, this one didn't look me straight in the eye. Which was fine, because I could stare all I wanted at the scar on his cheek as he mixed my cosmo in the tumbler. He had some scar the size of my kitchen knife running from one side of his head to the other, top to bottom, or bottom to top depending on how you looked at it. The scar tissue surrounding the wound was a mass of confused skin trying to get back into its normal place and finding no place to go but outward and into open air. It was all made worse by his pock-marked skin, and I was glad he didn't look at me as he shook the tumbler and poured the liquid into the martini glass. It came out smoothly, brokenly, as it covered the distance over crushed and melting pieces of ice, and then smoothly again. I turned around in the dirty wooden bar stool and couldn't find my date, but I wasn't worried. I'd find a cab, or call one if they didn't run in neighborhoods like these. I turned back around. This time, my cosmo was pink.