Ah dark lights and smoke machines. Thumping beats and loud distortion. Ears ringing, head like a lead balloon full of watered down whiskey. Crumbled up dollar bills stuffed into your pocket. Coins jangling. Keys somewhere in there. Girls perfume and sweat thicken the air. Your head spins so fast you almost can't tell anymore. You're dizzy. You're sick. You're an alien. You don't belong here. What am I doing here? Who the fuck are these people and what the hell made me come here? What the fuck do we have in common that we should be spending any night of the week in the same place looking for the same kind of fun?
Maybe I'm not doing it right. I lose them all to a scene. I don't want to be in a scene. I have no real burning desire to belong with a bunch of bobbing heads. Sometimes I think I want to get old in front of a blue glowing monitor and type away every shitty impulse in my head. Hope someone gets it but never really care if anyone does.
A little bitter.
A little bitter and a little tired and a little burned out of all of it and having to think about it and trying to compete with it and trying to think of a way to get ahead of it and trying to stay on top of it and trying to get over it. Paranoid and intolerant. Too many losses to those armies of cardboard cutouts. Ah but thus is life. They will win because they do win.