So here I am after a party, relaxing in one of those stifling 90s joints where there would be an open mike with very bad poetry but that ended at 12, as they are putting up chairs. It's a 24-hour joint, and you can even smoke in here. Nate and I have already cleared out half a pack, it's getting hard to see the screen. Excuse me if I mistype. They play weird slow grunge, like sappy Nirvana and Soundgarden. It's like transferring back to 1994, except that none of us are wearing flannel. Wyatt informs me that he has plaid boxers. Plaid boxers do not count, Wyatt.
He wonders why.
Plaid is not flannel, obviously.
Nate and I have switched between comfy arm chairs, the counter to talk to the thin poet who works here and frequents open mics, and standing outside to make sure we dont suffocate. These people don't open the windows. I can feel my lungs shriveling, and my liver too.
Hey, I type pretty well for someone pumped on coffee and semi-drunk, eh?
Well, back to pointless philisophical talks with Nate, interjections provided by Wyatt.
Everyone else is back at whoever's place all passed out, but we've decided to stay up all night, just to piss off the people who work here.
Au revoir!
There, some hair to sate your appetite.
Roxie Hart
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