As I came to I realized what a futile exercise this was. Once again, a song begins to play in my mind. The desperation, the loneliness… shall I sing it for you?
Was this how it started? Is this how it started? I’m in a bar called ‘The Green Light’ as ominously named as a bar could be. I slide in offering as much hope as I see on your face, utterly aware of how this night is going to end even before it starts. ‘Strangers waiting… up and down the boulevard…’ Oh Christ, am I so drunk that I played this miserable song? Or did I simply will it into existence? Either way, I’m a walking cliché.
You know, I find is entirely odd that in an area of mp3 player’s, iThis and that that not only has the jukebox survived but evolved. Now it’s digital. This would be comforting if it weren’t for the fact that the jukebox exists almost solely in what is surely the most lonely and desperate of man’s dwellings, a bar. A fucking bar, and how did I come to find you here? You do realize that I’m going to relentlessly and ruthlessly judge and resent you for inviting me here. Into your arms, into your bed, into your home and into my head. Yet, I’m well aware of the fact that we’re going to do this again and again and again until we can no longer speak each other’s names without a considerable amount of disdain, if we’re even speaking at that point. But hold on, hold on, I’m almost there.
I’m getting way ahead of myself. Wait no, fuck it. Perhaps the night would’ve turned out entirely different had I selected some Sinatra. A little “Strangers in the Night.” Do you like that? Of course you do. No wait, fuck it. You would’ve liked that wouldn’t you? Yes, yes you would… How fucking cheesy.
You’re ideas on narrative (on? Of…) of narrative are so fucking trite and contrived I don’t know why I’m talking to you. I want to destroy you and all of YOUR ideas. Ideas.
What a futile fucking enterprise.
