On friday night I walked to a local bar with my friends feeling foreign&decrepit all at once.
It was fun in the way that lulling yourself to sleep feels fun; we walked inside, shuffling one of my friends outdoors to skip the bouncer call, and went to the front of the bar. I asked for a pornstar martini and the man behind the counter shouted "What?!" so loudly I thought I made a fool of myself in front of everyone (I almost turned around to look, almost). I don't think he knew what a pornstar martini was and in a panic I said I wanted a green tea shot instead. They taste so nice...
They did not taste quite as nice on friday. I wonder if the bartender's glasses were foggy, he had been sweating so hard trying to get the orders, a group came in cheering for mineraguas! mineraguas! mineraguas! When reaching for the whiskey his hand slipped and added more than usual. I drank it anyways and sat with my friends at a small stool by the dart tables. We watched Bloodsport on mute. Jean-Claude van Damme is in it, he looked ridiculously stiff.
My friend always says she wants to seem like an early 2000s social party girl when presenting online. It feels like a dress-up game. I don't want to copy her, but pretending is so fun. I played dress-up that night. I played the part of a dive-bar ornament, not human enough to talk but not decorative enough to stay still-- the added background decour-bobble was meant to look nice only as was my job. I realized I love my friends / I also wanted to be away from some friends too / I wanted some of them far, far away in my mind [...] / . I felt the night like a blanket, felt so alone in the best way. A thick feeling running down my skin, down down down...
I could not stop thinking about my image in the eyes of a man I'd fancied. Violence made me think of myself. It incites horror, concern, compassion, revulsion-- in short, pity and fear-- but I had no offering for anywhere for those feelings to go. In that vulnerability, it turned to shallow love. Infatuation. Preverbal, love is the blurred vision after blinking hard (Dux had tears in his). Love becomes everything, describable, relatable. Over time it becomes an enemy's love. This promiscuous feeling of mixing the carnal angered violence on screen, of sweet-thought pleasures, of seeing them both related as Love... the guttural expressions, heart-cracking pain, it's the same. Taking it all in, it's the same. Dux didn't love in a way I could understand.
Watching Bloodsport, in each punch that Dux had thrown, the blood of Chong Li splattered on skin and I thought of myself. Reflection via transmission of an American ex-pat veteran fighting in Hong_Kong. My other friend drank an entire Corona with lime burping along as she went.
It was impressive. We wanted to shoot darts so we left the divebar. On the walk back we found a scooter before leaving through an ally.
Anyways, here is me on that scooter.
I love you x
Comments
Displaying 0 of 0 comments ( View all | Add Comment )