I don’t get it. I really don’t get it.

I look out over the crowd and I see the Leather Girls – the ones with the softball-shaped breast implants and the bad orange tans – pressing up against the Soft Boys, the guys with Indoor Jobs and Sensibly Rebellious Hair.

They’re out of the natural order.

They clearly aren’t edible

They clearly have no other purpose.

My gaze wanders and I see Peter Pan the Gothic Wonder, the guy that really needs to learn strappy pants and a hot topic T-shirt are not how you dress if you’re a greasy 32 year old mechanic with a meth problem. Next to him is The Incredible Expanding Sow, his sidekick.

She has the super power to make other people feel good about their weight by contrast. She learned this power sometime senior year in highschool, when she suddenly just . . . stopped being pretty.

Behind them is Let’s Get Fucked Up Pete, a guy who believes, passionately, that we should get fucked up. With him is Goodtimes the Ancient Biker. He was in NAM even though he’s really only 44, and he was a marine. He’ll tell you about special martial arts they only teach to marines that you can use to kill a man. After which, Pete will tell him to Get Fucked Up.

I ignore them and talk to Pretty Whore a little bit. PW is an OK person but she is pretty. This holds her back.

She and I look out over the densely packed area near the bar – what we call the Sea of Futility. Futility base, the Frustration has landed.

Everybody in the bar area wants someone else in the bar area, the only caveat being that under no circumstances shall the person they want be the person who wants them.

The doorman directs me, unbidden, to the coolest part of the building, the kitchen. This is where the real cool kids seem to be hanging out. I loiter here.

I look around and where I’m supposed to see other people I only see automatons and livestock. You aren’t my species, you fucks. You aren’t my species and you aren’t my friends and god help you if I ever get my hands on any sort of real power.