Monday Morning Commute: Launch The Polaris, The End Doesn’t Scare Us!
Welcome to the dance. In the corner you’ll find the teenage boys and girls awkwardly writhing against one another while their genitals engorge. Two teachers married to spouses they can’t stand are echoing the teenagers’ awkward behavior. modified slightly by decades of distaste and ennui. Don’t pay the $2 for the lukewarm cans of Coca Cola, okay? We’ll walk down to the local gas station and buy ourselves some for cheaper and cut in around the back. The police officer can be sort of a hard ass, but if we swear, pledge, take an oath, to never leave in the middle of the dance again, he’ll let us in.
He’s a sucker. But he’s sort of a nice guy.
Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.
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Reading / The Cold War: A New History, by John Gaddis
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I didn’t go to many school dances. However, I distinctly remember one. I must have been in middle school. It was a sweaty lunchroom stuffed with adolescents, all of us not really understanding the implications of our newly hormone drenched bodies. Namely, that we had entered into the beginning of a life where our core desires were thrusting and receiving until we blasted internal and external fluids. The beginning of a life where all we wanted was fourteen panting seconds in a bedroom before acknowledging that we could feel the insatiably flesh creep back into the corners of our minds.
I was no different.
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Watching / Toy Story 3
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I sat there just as hungry for my little flaccid wankerpiece to rub up against some girl in my grade. But fat, awkward, and covered in the same acne that still haunts me on stressed occasion, I sat in the back of the room waiting to go home. My stomach was churning. God only knows why. It was probably the anxiety of a social situation. I could feel the sweat collecting in the basket of my underwear, the dampness of my forehead. I felt like an abomination. There was the relative certainty in my mind that I was going to shit my pants.
Some things never change.
For some sort reason, something I can’t fathom, at some point of the dance a girl came up to me. Call it anti-providence. God condemning an awkward lad to an uncomfortable conversation. Maybe it was the allure of perspiration, Michael Jordan cologne, and braces that attracted her. Hey, whatever floats your boat. She came up me, and asked me to dance. I shook my head no. She insisted. What I couldn’t tell her, what I wouldn’t dare, is that I was about to shit my pants.
Which also calls into question when I began to be so outwardly scatological.
I was hanging over the precipice of Mount Shitpants, clinging on by claws, and here was a pretty girl asking me to dance. Please go, little girl. Go be cool. My asshole is getting a workout, clenched like they were stemming the tides of demonic wonders from entering our realm.
Eventually she left me alone. She went back to her friends, to the thumping of the bass lines. She descended back into the murky cafeteria filled with poor lighting and little chubbies and nascent sex drives. I exhaled. But not too hard. I had a pair of pants to protect.
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Playing / Fallout 3
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And that’s really my only recollection of a dance. Ever. I realized after that evening that I wasn’t cut out for such a thing. Friday nights were to be for pizza, Nintendo 64, and masturbating in AOL chat rooms. It was an easy decision to make, after a near run-in with a member of the opposite sex. Phew. I barely made it.
That’s my only dance experience, and the best part of the night was when I got home. I finally pressed bare ass to cool throne and blasted a chocolate fountain of chicken nugget and french fry hate into the hungry toilet. Relief. Blissful relief. I remember being so happy because as I took that shit, I sat down and read the newest issue of Die Hard Gamefan. The issue was talking about Battle Arena Toshinden. Crapping into a pot, reading about polygons, these are some of my favorite things.
Still.
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