Like a Hard-boiled wonderland and the end of the world I began writing this piece. With expectations greater than the outcome of ďAmericas next top modelĒ and a plot as solid as every Family Guy episode. But I must stop, and warn you. This was a piece written merely to pass time. This goes nowhere; it has no plot, expect nothing, read it only once and words 2-10 in the first sentence of this piece was the title of some psychotic oversea book Haruki Murakami wrote in 1985. Moving on, Iíd firstly like to clear up a few problems we might have along the way. I am hoping (dearly) that after reading this piece you and your large (spare me) group of friends will discus it at great lengths. Sitting around in some expensive restaurant that serves martiniís to underage kids just for the sake of it. And all of you will giggle once the waiter walks away. Mumbling how everything that went on in that horrible place was inhumane.
ďCant believe he actually gave us the martiniĒ
ďWhat an idiotĒ
ďDid you read that thing in the newspaper?Ē
And so on...But as all of you can see from just this first paragraph my inspiration has been shot, ripped apart and run over by cars the employees working at liquor stores drive. No, wait, that sounded much too Kelly Clarkson even for this high school (the part about being ripped apart). But my inspiration has been ripped apart, and the goal of this article has lost its purpose. Since none of us really care what each of us have to say to each other. May it be on topics of politics, or even the perasuco jeans you bought from that idiot in whatever store you stumbled into. Stopping for just a minute here and asking you readers, do any of you now know the point of this piece? Truthfully speaking of course Iím only writing this to seem intellectual, witty and on the move with current events. Iím deeply wishing that at least one of the 3 listed traits have surfaced at this point.
But these days the only way to seem even mildly unique is to make a statement. A statement. What is my statement? I should make one, like the girl selling lulu lemon pants at the mall. With her hair dyed pink, spiked in different directions wearing a shirt with a skull on it. She was, of course, as the cool kids put it ďhardcoreĒ. It was a disgusting sight. She smirked at me as I walked by because my hair wasnít pink and I wasnít wearing live-strong bracelet. I was tempted to yell out some obscene remark artistically put together to tell her that she looked bad. But I didnít. I kept walking. Out of the store. The floor. The stairs. The door. The sidewalk. The parking lot. The neighborhood. The city. The country. To move, to a place where romance happens as often as car accidents and blizzards. Where Paris is an understatement to the lit up downtown streets in May. Where people forget about hairstyles and everything relies on tone of voice and proper coffee. Where families are completely relevant and we must all wear metal chains with metal numbers assigning us to our imaginary guardians.
Oh no, that sounds too degrading. Just like their descriptions of me on irrelevant November afternoons. They told me I was a pessimist. They told me I was aloof. They told me to write down all the sins I had ever done just because the Christian newsletter in their mailbox said so. They told me to buy contacts. They told me to cover my head to escape the unneeded echoes of the rain. They told me to continue walking towards my delusive contentment. That unearthly kingdom of secluded ships carrying scene kids and poser Goths. With their hair dyed black, sparkly lip rings and silver eye shadow. Running in opposite directions to show as much non-conformity as they all could. While speaking rapidly of nonexistent death and intoxication. Fast as snakes on frozen water. Hissing. Assuring. Until death becomes us. Forcing all of them to whisper to each other unkept promises of joining various cults. And somewhere else. Miles away. In another place, in another city. There are people tracing their pale feet on the sand. Dancing in twirls in their blue summer dresses. Promising each other that the ocean is actually an illusion they dreamt up when the sky was limitless and blue. This is warmth. This is real. This is sad.
Even sadder than all the cups of coffee I told everyone I drank. Which I actually didnít. Because I donít drink coffee. I just tell everyone I do, and go to cafes to seem like someone who enjoys Shakespeare and is hopelessly in love with literature. Because the smells of coffee will make us sink into our own versions of surrealism. This is what they saw in the cafť I sat in. Their eyes peering through the foggy windows whispering to me that my costume wasnít brilliant enough. While I tried my best to ignore them I still felt sick with expectations. The boy a few tables away wrapped his scarf securely around his neck and walked into the hush of the night. Like me, who walked in on Halloween and walked out 13 days later. Dreaming tired dreams of getting this piece published and getting a new wallet, with the sounds of loneliness repeatedly ringing in my ears.