The smell of sulfur, of someone lighting a match, makes its way into my lungs as I sit on a sofa, having failed to keep up with Amy. I convince myself it’s for the better, listening to mediocre music and watching people.
“It’s a beautiful night tonight.”
“I told him to go to hell.”
“I bought them down at that shop on the boardwalk. Down by 12 South.”
I can’t decide if I want this night to live in my memory forever or not. Good and bad points all around. All abound. People, dialogue, frustrations with them. With myself.
Seeing everyone run around with Cool Whip and homebrew (brought and made by someone I didn’t know named Lance, but I bond with him as we try to get people to drink it for money. Inspired by sheer boredom, it keeps me entertained for 20 minutes or so until people wise up that the stuff tastes like fire and makes them vomit.), arguing about identically dressed sluts. Their age and their motivation. 15 is the consensus for their age, but they think they are 19 and, thus, want to be treated as such. Hot pink tube tops and black stretch pants, both to match your high, stiff bangs and bleach-damaged hair does not make you 19. Or attractive. Listening to Lance and a girl named Comfort talk about drugs and fall into each other which might make me sad until I realize, cute or not, she’s into drugs. We wouldn’t click.
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