Week 2: The Weakend

28 Nov

I am addicted to this sort of thing, to the silent streets of a Friday evening littered with half eaten pieces of food, colorful chocolate wrappers discarded, smoldering cigarette buds, you get the picture. It’s something in the way that expectation creeps up on you, even though it should know better. Expectation and experience have a sick love hate relationship with each other, like the master that beats his dog regularly and the poor dumb fuck always comes back for more wagging his tail. Like in that time interval, when the pain of the blows was dissipating, somehow something changed, but it didn’t, it doesn’t and we need to stop our incessant wagging of our tails, it makes us look not only foolish but dumb altogether. I could never get around the fact that even though expectation is battered, tattered tearing at the seems with past experience, it never fails to show up. And you pop another piece of gum and start chewing the feeling away as if it don’t matter. We have seen this all before and we know the drill, it’s the same weekend over and over again, but what if? What if this one is going to have a different outcome? Bullshit! The “what if” is a mental fuck up! It’s our own private way of diluting ourselves in believing that this night is worth a shot, taking down the banners and keep away signs of experience and banging our heads up against the padded walls of our own denial happily gulping down our own bullshit and being pleased all the while. Rotting away the last remnants of lucid thinking…

The Club

You can feel the thump of the bass the moment you touch the front door. The hundreds of people breathing one collective breath, the smog infested, rhythmically oriented, universal Friday night breath. The hostile bartenders and the sweaty journey from anywhere to anywhere, rubbing up against other people and their moist skin, not aware that the feeling of sleaze is intimately interlace with the cheap fabric of their clothes. The alcohol laden conversations all bent on the collective urge to fuck, be fucked and fuck over. The last of this nightclub trinity is the most common and strongest of the three. Our festering minds that are filled up with the frustration of our own private hell we call life turned, into routine, ferments it’s oily juices and spills over when the weekend hits. So we get the perfect ingredients for a shitstrom of unresolved complexes all being waged at the bar or dancefloor, the bathrooms or in the taxi cue.

The Crowd

Who the fuck are all these people and what are they they doing in my living room. You just simply cannot stop yourself from hating this raggedy mod, all on their way to a self induced coma. It’s colorful, sure, there can be no question about that, but if your expecting a peacocks tail you’re in for a hell of a ride. Let me summarize for you:

Douchebags, fuckclumps, whores, scancs, drags, fags, potheads, tweekers, stoners, lateravers, hipsters, bee boy wannabes, fly girl impersanators, music prosecutors, self taught art critics, baristas, undercover prostitutes, the night owls, the weak, the confused, the down right mad, the insane motherfuckers that you will always catch outside the club wanting a cigarette, this whole multicolored universe of shit, the rejected society, our real images, our desires that have roots in innocence and that somehow after years of repression take nightclub form, and before you know it we all turn into these zombies craving alcohol induced flirt and bass music. All neatly arranged in stocks and categories.

The Guys

The endless line of beerbuddys all clamoring by the bar, starved for meaningful conversation, not knowing or giving a fuck about much. The androgynous lady boys that have no idea why the fuck are they becoming so asexual, when all they want is to fuck girls. Moreover they do tend to get even more confused when said girls decide that looking like you don’t own a pair of balls or looking like you have no trace of testosterone on your silky smooth skinned body is all the rage, and on top of it all hot. The rejected nerds in high-school become repressed vodka consumers, stalking in and out of bars before hitting the night all prepped up to be the toy of club bouncers just waiting for some drunk fuck to start some shit. The washed out players all hoping for some game, but even if the naked truth is singeing their eyes they will just not give up. There’s a sort of poetic tragedy to all of this horrible ballet of lifes all gone wrong. The balance of expectation-experience-reality all fucked up, wouldn’t you say?

The Girls

The endless bathroom cue of supermodel wannabes, row upon row of these anorexic bitches all wearing the same shade of lip-gloss the same skirts or jeans or tees, the same high heels the same sneakers. Snarling at missed opportunities of real charm or beauty, opting for a stringent falsehood all made just with the help of another appletinnie or what the fuck they’re called, the devil’s cosmopolitan.

The fat chicks clinging to the side of their skinny friends scrounging for leftover guys, too drunk to tell the difference, waiting for their ship to come in at this drunken sex lottery, all the while feeding themselves fried denial and some other grotesque horror story to keep them from popping their brains on the pavement outside the club, the fat girls torture chamber.

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