A Downtown Party

Police sirens in the distance, smoke billowing from my mouth. It's funny. I always end up alone. Smoke alone, eat alone, drink alone, walk to my car alone, go home... alone. Watch movies alone, read books alone, sit in class alone, talk to myself, drive around. A-L-O-N-E.

I am the fucking queen of solitude.

Sit alone, ponder alone, go on late night drives alone, sleep alone, walk downtown. Alone. There's a thin line between "me time" and pathetic loneliness.

So. Police sirens in the distance, smoke billowing, midnight dew settling, etc, etc. I'm puffing away like a clove-fired engine that could. Downtown parties, and everyone is either trying to get laid or simply enjoying the company of friends they wouldn't mind "laying" another night.

People arrive in groups to these things, two at a time at the least. I, being the fucking queen of solitude, always, always, always slip in alone. This particular night started out with me surprising my friends, the hosts - "HEY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!" A fairly loud and grand exclamation for my less-than-that entrance. The circle of people my friends are standing in abruptly cease and desist conversation, all the while giving me a "who the hell are you" look. These accusatory looks, ostracizing me with their eyes. This friend is their property, not mine, and there is not enough to share. This is the point when I give them all a mental fuck you, not wasting any energy to come up with a clever rhetorical remark, and quickly proceed to the alcohol.

My friends shoot the shit with me for a little while and move on to their other guests, and I am left alone, again, to sip on whatever hard liquor concoction I decided would be my drink of the night. Tonight was vanilla-vodka-and-cran night. It tasted like cake. Happy birthday.

I always do end up finding people at these things, though, to spend most of time with. With my luck, I happen upon the people who also enjoy being walking clichés, the "I only smoke when I'm drunk" types. This was not such a night. Didn't even happen upon a "I tolerate cigarette smoking at an outdoors downtown party" type...

So that's how things end up, one way or another. I either find a circle of party friends of my own or I wander when fellow clichés can't be found. This night, after exhausting the non-smokers, I found some steps, sat down, smoked a couple of clove cigarettes. Listened to the sirens, watched the smoke, felt the dew settling. Alone. I looked at the stars and listened to people trying to get laid under the guise of drunken conversation. I did this all alone, and I thought how poetic it all was and maybe I should write about it.

So here it is. Who knows what writing about it does at all. It certainly doesn't change the fact that every time I read this again, I will probably be alone. Gotta love the me time.