As he did so often when he faced trouble or uncertainty in his life, he took it out on his gas pedal again. His friends called him "Leadfoot", because... well, it's self-explanatory, really.
***********************************************************
His best friend had woken him up earlier that day with promises that he was throwing the party of the year at his place, the epic chance to "score drunk chicks" as he eloquently put it. Try as he might to convince him that he just wasn't interested, in the matter of hours his friend went from persistent to insistent to FUCK-YOU-YOU'RE-COMING-OVER-THIS-INSTANT ("Rhyming is fun", He thought). His friend's philosophy was to hook up with random girls whenever in a dark place in one's life. Or in a good place. Or any place, really... but mostly the dark place thing. Pretty? Score. Drunk? Why not. Fat? Meh, OK. Mustache? Turn off the lights. Didn't matter where, didn't matter when, and most importantly, didn't matter who. Which is all well and good when you're the emotionally crippled bag of commitment issues that his friend was (he thought, with love), but he found that he didn't happen to share that particular philosophy. He took a moment to revel in the utter orgy of madness that was his friend's life, but for some reason the images came up hazy, almost as if his brain was censoring the thoughts on purpose because they would be written in blog form later and it didn't want them to be too explicit. Crazy, right?
He had tried to communicate to his friend that he loved someone and that random hook-ups wouldn't cut it for him anymore, but he would have none of it. Trying to convince him was like trying to logic a dog out of chasing its tail own tail... except his friend usually chased tail in general, not specifically his own. He mentally laughed at his own joke, and then acknowledged the fact that shit like that would probably get him killed one day with a hammer. He was OK with it.
Faced with the immovable wall of sheer nagging that was his friend, he got in his car and drove over. First sign of trouble was that there wasn't a single parking spot left when he got there, and it was only 9 PM. Using his carefully-honed detective skills, he concluded from the fresh tire-tracks that most of the cars were there for the party and that they'd only just arrived. He was halfway up the stairs, with a smug smile on his face, when he heard his friend screaming "wrong building, you idiot" from -you guessed it- another building, presumably the right one.
Up he went, and was greeted at the door by his friend and a girl, doubtless his first hook-up of the night. He was quickly reminded why he hated parties, as he walked inside.
First of all, the music. It wasn't like he was 50 or anything, but why did it have to be so LOUD? Then he answered himself; because it eliminated the need for small talk. People were simply there to drink, dance and have a good time without feeling the need to engage in irrelevant, unnecessary niceties such as saying "hi" or asking about each other's hobbies, or I don't know, getting to know each others' names. "What is this, the 40s?", the whole atmosphere seemed to ask itself derisively in response, snorting and choking on its beer while grinding with a girl whose face it hadn't even seen yet.
Mostly communicating by improvised sign language, his friend ushered him to a couch where two very hot girls started flirting with him... and by flirting, I mean the naughty kind that makes babies. He politely said thanks but no thanks, which they responded to by smiling and nodding their heads vigorously and doing what they'd been doing anyway. He realized that they probably hadn't heard him because he hadn't even heard himself, so he pointed at his crotch, shook his head and got up. He could see how heart-broken they were, until they started making out two seconds later. Oh, well. It felt nice that they'd obviously been into him, but in all fairness he was only 70% sure that his friend hadn't paid them to.
As the night progressed, he realized that the unavailable vibe he was giving off was an unbelievable chick-magnet. Five more girls had tried to (is "jump his bones" an appropriate term?) and two even gave him their phone numbers so he could call them later. Irresistible Adonis though he narcissistically knew he was, rejecting ten girls in one night had already inflated his ego enough... In some weird way, his friend had helped. But he was no closer to getting over the girl he loved, and he wasn't in the mood to reject ten more girls. Well, maybe just two more. OK, now he had to go. He looked for his friend, who was nowhere to be found, so he decided to call it a night anyway and left early.
By early, I meant 2 am. Time had passed faster than he believed possible.
Even though he hadn't drunk at all, it was very hard to stay awake at that hour without cranking up the music in his car. Comfortably Numb often calmed him down, but that was the opposite of what he wanted... so, he put on Will Pharrel's "Happy". Yeah, he thought it was way overrated and mainstream too, but it made him want to dance, so sue him. Anyway, the minute he started driving, his thoughts turned to her again. As if in response, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
As he did so often when he faced trouble or uncertainty in his life, he took it out on his gas pedal again. His friends called him "Leadfoot", because... well, it's self-explanatory, really. He didn't understand why high speed made him feel better. Maybe he liked almost dying several times a day... or maybe in some weird way, speed made him outrun his doubts and feelings. And what feelings they were...
He had unresolved issues with his ex; he was having almost daily fights with his father; his boss had given him ANOTHER RAISE (comic relief interjection) and most importantly, he was hopelessly in love with a girl who probably felt the same way but was completely wrong for him and he didn't know how to deal with it.
As if that weren't enough, he crashed into a lamp post.
He staggered out of the car, battered and bloody, only to be hit by another car. He would have laughed at the comic death he was facing, but it hurt too much to breathe so he settled for a smile... because his last thought was of her... And because "Happy" was still playing in his car, comically mocking his last dying breath.
I know, huge bummer...
So anyway, what's up with you?
***********************************************************
His best friend had woken him up earlier that day with promises that he was throwing the party of the year at his place, the epic chance to "score drunk chicks" as he eloquently put it. Try as he might to convince him that he just wasn't interested, in the matter of hours his friend went from persistent to insistent to FUCK-YOU-YOU'RE-COMING-OVER-THIS-INSTANT ("Rhyming is fun", He thought). His friend's philosophy was to hook up with random girls whenever in a dark place in one's life. Or in a good place. Or any place, really... but mostly the dark place thing. Pretty? Score. Drunk? Why not. Fat? Meh, OK. Mustache? Turn off the lights. Didn't matter where, didn't matter when, and most importantly, didn't matter who. Which is all well and good when you're the emotionally crippled bag of commitment issues that his friend was (he thought, with love), but he found that he didn't happen to share that particular philosophy. He took a moment to revel in the utter orgy of madness that was his friend's life, but for some reason the images came up hazy, almost as if his brain was censoring the thoughts on purpose because they would be written in blog form later and it didn't want them to be too explicit. Crazy, right?
He had tried to communicate to his friend that he loved someone and that random hook-ups wouldn't cut it for him anymore, but he would have none of it. Trying to convince him was like trying to logic a dog out of chasing its tail own tail... except his friend usually chased tail in general, not specifically his own. He mentally laughed at his own joke, and then acknowledged the fact that shit like that would probably get him killed one day with a hammer. He was OK with it.
Faced with the immovable wall of sheer nagging that was his friend, he got in his car and drove over. First sign of trouble was that there wasn't a single parking spot left when he got there, and it was only 9 PM. Using his carefully-honed detective skills, he concluded from the fresh tire-tracks that most of the cars were there for the party and that they'd only just arrived. He was halfway up the stairs, with a smug smile on his face, when he heard his friend screaming "wrong building, you idiot" from -you guessed it- another building, presumably the right one.
Up he went, and was greeted at the door by his friend and a girl, doubtless his first hook-up of the night. He was quickly reminded why he hated parties, as he walked inside.
First of all, the music. It wasn't like he was 50 or anything, but why did it have to be so LOUD? Then he answered himself; because it eliminated the need for small talk. People were simply there to drink, dance and have a good time without feeling the need to engage in irrelevant, unnecessary niceties such as saying "hi" or asking about each other's hobbies, or I don't know, getting to know each others' names. "What is this, the 40s?", the whole atmosphere seemed to ask itself derisively in response, snorting and choking on its beer while grinding with a girl whose face it hadn't even seen yet.
Mostly communicating by improvised sign language, his friend ushered him to a couch where two very hot girls started flirting with him... and by flirting, I mean the naughty kind that makes babies. He politely said thanks but no thanks, which they responded to by smiling and nodding their heads vigorously and doing what they'd been doing anyway. He realized that they probably hadn't heard him because he hadn't even heard himself, so he pointed at his crotch, shook his head and got up. He could see how heart-broken they were, until they started making out two seconds later. Oh, well. It felt nice that they'd obviously been into him, but in all fairness he was only 70% sure that his friend hadn't paid them to.
As the night progressed, he realized that the unavailable vibe he was giving off was an unbelievable chick-magnet. Five more girls had tried to (is "jump his bones" an appropriate term?) and two even gave him their phone numbers so he could call them later. Irresistible Adonis though he narcissistically knew he was, rejecting ten girls in one night had already inflated his ego enough... In some weird way, his friend had helped. But he was no closer to getting over the girl he loved, and he wasn't in the mood to reject ten more girls. Well, maybe just two more. OK, now he had to go. He looked for his friend, who was nowhere to be found, so he decided to call it a night anyway and left early.
By early, I meant 2 am. Time had passed faster than he believed possible.
Even though he hadn't drunk at all, it was very hard to stay awake at that hour without cranking up the music in his car. Comfortably Numb often calmed him down, but that was the opposite of what he wanted... so, he put on Will Pharrel's "Happy". Yeah, he thought it was way overrated and mainstream too, but it made him want to dance, so sue him. Anyway, the minute he started driving, his thoughts turned to her again. As if in response, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal.
As he did so often when he faced trouble or uncertainty in his life, he took it out on his gas pedal again. His friends called him "Leadfoot", because... well, it's self-explanatory, really. He didn't understand why high speed made him feel better. Maybe he liked almost dying several times a day... or maybe in some weird way, speed made him outrun his doubts and feelings. And what feelings they were...
He had unresolved issues with his ex; he was having almost daily fights with his father; his boss had given him ANOTHER RAISE (comic relief interjection) and most importantly, he was hopelessly in love with a girl who probably felt the same way but was completely wrong for him and he didn't know how to deal with it.
As if that weren't enough, he crashed into a lamp post.
He staggered out of the car, battered and bloody, only to be hit by another car. He would have laughed at the comic death he was facing, but it hurt too much to breathe so he settled for a smile... because his last thought was of her... And because "Happy" was still playing in his car, comically mocking his last dying breath.
I know, huge bummer...
So anyway, what's up with you?
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