First, cryptic exchange:
girl: “Sorry about…you know.”
bloke: “It comes with the territory.”
girl: “Of what?”
bloke: “Of dating.”
girl: “You mean this is normal?”
CHEESE: They put on a mini concert in Pierre’s backyard. It was too early but that earliness combined with the insecurity of partythrowers and the general scrambling into one’s empty hipster posers on the concrete ground in front of these glasses wearing button up shirt dudes focused as naturally behind the Casio as anything, as the shirts bound their bodies in repose, created a series of fizzles and pops as the rain stopped and started and I could see bloke wiping the keyboard with his checkered sleeve as he played a sweeping, too lush rendition of Talkie Walkie…I tried to acquire an umbrella from random bystander to cover it but God made the rain stop and made the hipsters stop spilling out onto the street to request a Doogie Howser song.
Gay boyfriend gave me massages, aghast at the “gristle”, I sat on Mar’s lap to protect myself from the empty hole that was the concrete spot that wasn’t being danced on. Her lap was surprisingly sit-on-able. We wore grey Uniqlo jeans and black tops, matching but not, and she didn’t want to dance except they played the first notes of the Beverly Hills Cop song and she jumped up as a matter of course. It was when the bright spots of Mar’s sister and her wide-eyed bf from Indiana strolled in, one in magenta, the other in emerald green, bumping in time with the end of a song that Mar shrieked with laughter and the party began to gell into the Casio and the Casio into it. By the time the Cupcake cafe cupcakes arrived everyone was involved.
Mar said “You missed the Ace of Base” to incomers, fully establishing the Casio’s existence and later on Kklov asked bloke why he didn’t record it on tape. It managed, by good intention and high class, to become an event of sorts, however short its inception and delivery dampened by drizzle. It hadn’t occurred to me to sound record since I was busy photographing. I hide behind photographing, that became sure at the party.
Mar was worried about a “corporate” coming that evening from Wall Street world. “This party is so hipster. I don’t know what to do! He’s going to get scared!” I was secretly proud, because both Casio boys were from uptown and had only been in Williamsburg once in their entire lives, strange speciies that smell of star lilies and fresh Ernest Sewn jeans. Their every move is sharp and dictated by something.
Post mini concert we threw around the pretty cupcakes, gay bf mashed one up against my BubbleYum jaws. The party happened before one could feel awkward. In some moment of vague unitedness between me and the boy up to the second floor, Mar came up to me on the rickety threshold separating the party and the real world, after looking inside the giftbag she’d cursorily opened pre-party just to say “Did you actually buy this bag?” and I “Yeah, it was 4.50$ can you believe it?” She couldn’t, or could, didn’t matter really. (Our poverty isn’t so much matching these days, but i can’t keep up). She rummaged in the bag and looked at me with big eyes “I didn’t look in here before but miso, this stuff is really expensive!” “A lot of it was on sale,” I offered. Bloke elbowed me and said “Don’t say that.” “Why not?” I had spent much time selecting the precise beauty product that would fit into her life – including contemplating the purchase of a fragrance combo called “Deeply Mysterious.” but I settled on something more practical, namely a bunch of random stuff. “Yeah, the story’s better,” Mar said.
Lots of people mingled like it was a proper backyard party and tequila and whiskey. iTunes experienced its heyday. Huge plates of cheese and raw food, the latter for the [famous hair company] people who wore tight highwater hot pants, bathing suit tops, and oversize sunglasses. Upon purveying this corporeal audacity, I felt triumphant that I could carry on gaudiness even though I have been so reviled for it for most of my life by black-grey-and-a-touch-of- neon aesthetes.
Anyway, they’ve lost a lot of weight doing it raw. Cigarettes bound all types of food-eaters together, a bloke taking it to a new level with tobacco in a pipe. Shernoff broke out his sunglasses and was the living embodiment of the movie Knocked Up. Me and Bloke went separate ways to understand ourselves in new social relations including talking to the opposite sex, ending up on one of Pierre’s strange mini sofa chairs in the bathroom line where I had to do something predictable like straddle and coo until another distraction came along. Mostly that distraction was some crazed spectacle or Mar’s emeralded sister bumping her shoulders up and down to music. Somebody got to say loudly “I farted!” Tall people got to accuse other tall people of “vibing” each other. I got to flex some iTunes prowess but mostly I lost my cellphone or rather someone stole it.
At the end on the stoop boy walked out to discover Sevedox freshly landed from a plane from India, with a sombrero on his head, holding a bottle of Sauza and a cellphone holder from Nepal for me, in which my cellphone should’ve ended up but didn’t.
You may have gotten the gist of it, but the party was for Mar’s birthday. She is a year closer to me and I am closer to nothing, except my meds, which will run out in a month and I don’t know what to do, because I have no health insurance now, as a full-time student. My mental health I care nothing for, but the sleeping I have issue with. I have no idea how I will sleep. I’ve been an insomniac for most of my life so it was a relief to discover there were things that I could take that would nonaddictively make sleep my friend. No longer did I have to conduct massive rituals to create the illusion of ease before my bed. No longer did I have to guarantee the absence of person next to me, sound, or bacteria.
Funnily enough my dreams have ceased to be about flying. They are now about boats, sex, space, all things that frighten the hell out of me.
CHELSEA, and a bunch of raw shit: The week has been eventful. Chalk another one up for the Hating Miso club. Of course I am always paranoid about people hating me but when it actualizes it is more a curious event than one to be truly lamented, mostly because one doesn’t know what to do when faced with someone one fears constantly. I know I feel that way around fish. Part of the drama is due to the endemic wack particles of the situation, like timing, temprement, dress sense, body types, word choices, stances, principles, childhood baggage, tendency to cloak insult in offhand comments, tendency to read insult in offhand comments, the emotional insufficiencies of either party – and a lot of it my own isues – but the relative normalcy of the other things in my life lessen the dramatic impact of the hatred directed towards me.