(the vague and illegible ramblings about) An Emo's Night Out
woke up this morning in last night's clothes, earrings, belt, favorite underwear, trousers i was GOING to wear to work, complete with some uncomfortably-shaped objects in the pockets, with like the kewelest hair i've had in my life lol. turns out my white t-shirt and favorite underwear make for a slimming combination - shall resort to wearing them more often, or i would if i didn't love the t-shirt too much to condemn it to my bed. May have overdone it. I was supposed to be the gracious host, but was carried to bed haha...shame i couldnt have thought to clean up a bit before taking the 7th...8th...9th, fuck, no idea, drink; parents are mad about the spillages - and why should they be? at least it's evidence that their dear daughter didn't drink EVERY drop :p the dis-satisfaction of my parents has left me with the warm, wholly satisfied feeling of mischief.
It's a shame alcohol only initiates dreams about work. I'm not kidding - recollections of endlessly repetitive collection of yo-min dishes to table J22 or A18 or whatever (always yo-min. i ask you, do these people not know the delicate, if oily, perfection of mai-fun?) spring to mind. This most recent venture into the realm of work encouraged a second floor; a balcony-esque surrounding of wood and rails visible with a glance up from the ground floor. It required silver service to adapt to tightly-wound and vastly climbing stairs. Was fun, if frustrating to sacrafice the endless potential of dreams of an intoxicated mind to the topic of work.
Still....and friday night. Well, what can you say? An evening of mind-stretching. My outrage at the price for a double-shot-mixer in the Old orleans digressed into the nervous, virgin-esque pleasure of sitting on a bare mattress in a single-room apartment above dominoes with 6 people, 3 of whom i did not actually know, inhaling the smoke of 15 joints. Took none myself, and suspect that the drive for cannabis will actually be a climb from the effects of alcohol; certainly second-handing the stuff for 3 1/2 hours provided no obvious results; my first full on kiss with a girl seemed unmanipulated by burning greenery.
I digress. What all of this is leading to, what with the introduction of my description of a "mind stretching" night, is the admission that i met ryan
Yes, Ryan, do you know him? Here's him in a nutshell. Shame; ryan, even conceptually, is too big for a nutshell. But; gay, met him in my first year of college and loved his free-lance-liberteen nature, loved him as a person, a mentor - for his development of me and for his complete neglect to develop from my own example. Tall, thin...considerate, unless you cry of course. It's the filthiest habit of the female species. We spent countless hours in Starbucks sofas, chatting and laughing over macchiatos. My heart breaks when i compare those fuck yeah happy days to April - shall we call it the spring of my malancholy? I became depressed. No, don't ask me why, hormones; we are slaves to them. I left Jane and Kezia and Sasha with whom i was falling out because, basically, i didn't feel as cool as them. Ha, how i laugh at my own stupidity. Ryan was all that was left. Him, and Placebo's new Meds album - all about loneliness, insignificance, the dulling-down of a fast-track life. I felt bad. The song Broken Promise helped me - to go down and down, that is. Broken Promises could be strung together to form a dichotomous dialogue of my life; moments of kept promises, and moments of broken ones. So the song was significant. I would miss lessons, i would sit on my own - usually in starbucks, staring at an undrunk cup and remembering when being alone in starbucks simply meant you were waiting for a friend. I suppose i was, in a sense
Ah, these digressions. Basically, Ryan stopped contacting me after results day. I met his boyfriend aty the time, Henry - really good looking guy, funny, quiet - an animal in bed to Ryan's admission. Anyway, Suddenly my texts were left unreplied, my calls ignored, my attempts to track him down in Cafe Nero (i suspected he had changed coffee partisanship to nero) unfruitful. I, too, prefer cafe nero now - for taste, but not for memories. I met Ryan on friday night - first time since that results day last august - and under the influence i spotted him, hid my face and cried like, well, like an emo. Then i went for drinks - a quadruple shot was on the cards - the missed calls of my best friend ryan left the words i longed to say to him in my chest, fermenting into a string of curses. Maybe i should have shouted at him - YOU WERE MY BEST FRIEND, MY ONLY FRIEND. YOU WEREN'T THERE FOR ME WHEN I NEEDED YOU MOST, DID YOU JUST WANT ME THERE WHILE WE SHARED COLLEGES? DID YOU? NOW, AT UNI, I MEAN NOTHING, WANKFUCKTARDASSHOLE! - kinda thing, but the only sign of protest was me refraining from flinging myself at him. He poked me, i turned and looked at him. He gestured to me, or to my outfit, or to my aura of ANGER, and asked "Whats all this?" it was ryan, it was RYAN, my ryan - he hadnt changed. I didnt care if he didnt want to know me, he was here, he was WITH ME. I threw myself into him, hugging so tightly it was...well, emo. He giggled and claimed "Wow you're so emo." he squished my stomach and toldme i had gotten thin. I said thankyou, then claimed "I missed you so much i didn't eat" rubbish of course, although bouts of not eating do tend to bring up memories of him. rubbish, too, because i do eat. I laughed, i told him how much i had missed him, then demanded where he had been. he asked me, first, actually, and i was like...uh, YOU didnt call ME! i hoped, PREYED, he'd say that he had a new phone and couldnt find me to tell me. Nope, same phone. Same crack in the screen, which he vowed was proof that his phone was broken, that he couldnt receive texts and sometimes calls didnt work. Bullshoit, of course, but it mattered little. I was with him again. I got a proper goodbye - a "i'm so happy ive seen you again, i want you to know you form a part of me and i hope i see you again. if i don't you'll be with me in memory - like the dead really (another emo reference. i ask you, what the fuck is with me?) If i never see him again, i'll be okay knowing that i DID see him again in a point in life when, well, when i thought i would not.
Oh look at this, will you look at this? this MILE of monologue is not digression so much as the vague and illegible ramblings of an emo. I blame the hangover, and the coffee (the invention of the word aroma is justified by the existence of coffee - a strong one with dark chocolate is my hang-over-brekkie of choice.) has made my hands shakey and fevered - i type at around 30 million words a second on coffee, im telling you.
I chose the picture because i symbolises an unconventional and slightly unnerving friendship. Two contrasting people head to head.
It's a shame alcohol only initiates dreams about work. I'm not kidding - recollections of endlessly repetitive collection of yo-min dishes to table J22 or A18 or whatever (always yo-min. i ask you, do these people not know the delicate, if oily, perfection of mai-fun?) spring to mind. This most recent venture into the realm of work encouraged a second floor; a balcony-esque surrounding of wood and rails visible with a glance up from the ground floor. It required silver service to adapt to tightly-wound and vastly climbing stairs. Was fun, if frustrating to sacrafice the endless potential of dreams of an intoxicated mind to the topic of work.
Still....and friday night. Well, what can you say? An evening of mind-stretching. My outrage at the price for a double-shot-mixer in the Old orleans digressed into the nervous, virgin-esque pleasure of sitting on a bare mattress in a single-room apartment above dominoes with 6 people, 3 of whom i did not actually know, inhaling the smoke of 15 joints. Took none myself, and suspect that the drive for cannabis will actually be a climb from the effects of alcohol; certainly second-handing the stuff for 3 1/2 hours provided no obvious results; my first full on kiss with a girl seemed unmanipulated by burning greenery.
I digress. What all of this is leading to, what with the introduction of my description of a "mind stretching" night, is the admission that i met ryan
Yes, Ryan, do you know him? Here's him in a nutshell. Shame; ryan, even conceptually, is too big for a nutshell. But; gay, met him in my first year of college and loved his free-lance-liberteen nature, loved him as a person, a mentor - for his development of me and for his complete neglect to develop from my own example. Tall, thin...considerate, unless you cry of course. It's the filthiest habit of the female species. We spent countless hours in Starbucks sofas, chatting and laughing over macchiatos. My heart breaks when i compare those fuck yeah happy days to April - shall we call it the spring of my malancholy? I became depressed. No, don't ask me why, hormones; we are slaves to them. I left Jane and Kezia and Sasha with whom i was falling out because, basically, i didn't feel as cool as them. Ha, how i laugh at my own stupidity. Ryan was all that was left. Him, and Placebo's new Meds album - all about loneliness, insignificance, the dulling-down of a fast-track life. I felt bad. The song Broken Promise helped me - to go down and down, that is. Broken Promises could be strung together to form a dichotomous dialogue of my life; moments of kept promises, and moments of broken ones. So the song was significant. I would miss lessons, i would sit on my own - usually in starbucks, staring at an undrunk cup and remembering when being alone in starbucks simply meant you were waiting for a friend. I suppose i was, in a sense
Ah, these digressions. Basically, Ryan stopped contacting me after results day. I met his boyfriend aty the time, Henry - really good looking guy, funny, quiet - an animal in bed to Ryan's admission. Anyway, Suddenly my texts were left unreplied, my calls ignored, my attempts to track him down in Cafe Nero (i suspected he had changed coffee partisanship to nero) unfruitful. I, too, prefer cafe nero now - for taste, but not for memories. I met Ryan on friday night - first time since that results day last august - and under the influence i spotted him, hid my face and cried like, well, like an emo. Then i went for drinks - a quadruple shot was on the cards - the missed calls of my best friend ryan left the words i longed to say to him in my chest, fermenting into a string of curses. Maybe i should have shouted at him - YOU WERE MY BEST FRIEND, MY ONLY FRIEND. YOU WEREN'T THERE FOR ME WHEN I NEEDED YOU MOST, DID YOU JUST WANT ME THERE WHILE WE SHARED COLLEGES? DID YOU? NOW, AT UNI, I MEAN NOTHING, WANKFUCKTARDASSHOLE! - kinda thing, but the only sign of protest was me refraining from flinging myself at him. He poked me, i turned and looked at him. He gestured to me, or to my outfit, or to my aura of ANGER, and asked "Whats all this?" it was ryan, it was RYAN, my ryan - he hadnt changed. I didnt care if he didnt want to know me, he was here, he was WITH ME. I threw myself into him, hugging so tightly it was...well, emo. He giggled and claimed "Wow you're so emo." he squished my stomach and toldme i had gotten thin. I said thankyou, then claimed "I missed you so much i didn't eat" rubbish of course, although bouts of not eating do tend to bring up memories of him. rubbish, too, because i do eat. I laughed, i told him how much i had missed him, then demanded where he had been. he asked me, first, actually, and i was like...uh, YOU didnt call ME! i hoped, PREYED, he'd say that he had a new phone and couldnt find me to tell me. Nope, same phone. Same crack in the screen, which he vowed was proof that his phone was broken, that he couldnt receive texts and sometimes calls didnt work. Bullshoit, of course, but it mattered little. I was with him again. I got a proper goodbye - a "i'm so happy ive seen you again, i want you to know you form a part of me and i hope i see you again. if i don't you'll be with me in memory - like the dead really (another emo reference. i ask you, what the fuck is with me?) If i never see him again, i'll be okay knowing that i DID see him again in a point in life when, well, when i thought i would not.
Oh look at this, will you look at this? this MILE of monologue is not digression so much as the vague and illegible ramblings of an emo. I blame the hangover, and the coffee (the invention of the word aroma is justified by the existence of coffee - a strong one with dark chocolate is my hang-over-brekkie of choice.) has made my hands shakey and fevered - i type at around 30 million words a second on coffee, im telling you.
I chose the picture because i symbolises an unconventional and slightly unnerving friendship. Two contrasting people head to head.