Memories of Class

So I'm at this party last night with the rich girl I’ve been seeing. You know, one of those girls into constant mawkish cigarette smoke, spilled gin and fast meaningless sex.

Cue the fake mildly self-deprecating titter favoured by the bourgeoisie. Maybe, it is better to keep silent, I think. My disconformity embarrasses me. She doesn’t seem to mind. But then again she may not even know I’m here. She is having a deep conversation with a not-especially-intelligent, ex-dropout 23 year old California Boy who just graduated law school, and I’m feeling inadequate, and the increasing rapidity of their multisyllabic words is frightening.

Obstreperous. That’s a big word. No average middle class comic/blogger should know that one.

“Oh hi! Yes good evening.”

“youre that masked guy!”

“I am.”

“i like your comic,” cough.

He reminded me of one of those Bill Nye the Science Guy loving overachieving wunderacne kids from high school.

I shift through the disorienting room of nice clothes and relentless boasting to find myself in an empty doorframe. Suddenly very tired, left entirely alone, I lean against the door of sleep and look upwards, a noble gothic column scrolls itself up to the ceiling through a tangled web of mystical crosier trellises and rich marble scepters, all man-made forms meant to mimic the world of plants. A shaft of Rococo severity that pierces into a flamboyant gold dome, wrought with delicate iconography and mystically glowing Renaissance chandeliers. An endless sea of fading lights and aural vacuums. The synergy from the two opposing forces of light and sound create a third hybrid hyper-reality that…

“Oh hello. I have been busy.”

"Between the mock trial, grades, and living in sin, me too! PRESSURE PRESSURE STRESS! You know?"

"I do know."

She reminded me of one of those droning, reserved, motherly girls back in high school.

This bitter night cocktail is miles away from satisfying. Classically pitched words churning uproariously under this chandelier of stars. Oblivious and decadent, they make me long for days when I didn’t have to live a life defined by my actions.

Back when I was 18 and dumb. Some sort of wannabe jazzpunk dork with a droney voice and plenty of misdirected straightforward energy. I was all about the girls. Schoolwork typically got buried in the shuffle.

Back when the girls weren’t all tiptoeing taut waspy aristocrats in cocktail dresses and diamond slippers, but raggedy teenage exuberent teatering theatrical indie messes.

Back when I had a thing for somebody in my class. Literally. She was in my grade. She was in drama with me. And I would occasionally stare at her while she was at lunch, or with her friends before school. Sometimes I would change my path to class just so I could pass by her in the hallway. Her hair was always tied back in a ponytail, and she had this very angelic-like uncliche face.

Those were the days when I was free. I was uninhibited. I could do anything. Anything in the world. Except talk to her.

“Huh?”

"i asked if you’re ready to go.”

“Yes, I am ready to go." I was ready to go a long time ago.