Once upon a time in a not so distant land, in a time that seemed almost comprehensible there lived a girl who took pride in being rather intuitive. She may not have been the prettiest, smartest or funniest damsel on the block, but she was always a decent judge of human character and sexual preference. She took certain pride in her flair and ability to grasp the essence of most people, thus channeling it as important survival technique in an overtly vicious world, shielding her self from the company and influence of those she deemed less favorable.
This served as a great mechanism for categorizing people and storing them in neat little boxes that she had created in the rather chaotic realm of her imagination, a meager yet important way in which she brought some method to the madness that played havoc in her head each day.
The valiant and heroic protagonist of this tale, in her hunt for some much needed relaxation and carousing journeyed to a dear friends weekend bash in hopes of participating in some good old fashioned revelry. Hope they say is a funny thing, it’s essential it have some in healthy, moderate doses, but like it is with most things in excess, a little too much optimism can more often than not lead to overt disappointment, or so she had learned from the times gone by.
So with little expectation other than the humble urge to have a moderately amicable evening, she stepped into the playing field, gallant but cautious. Meeting new people and being your glaring best always seemed like a chore to her. It’s a rather daunting task, to be observed and perceived by all those faceless names, your brain whirs with a million thoughts trying to frantically cling onto that one great idea that could sustain a somewhat appealing conversation of decent length, all the while your eyes narrow with a hard gleam, your retinas contract in a sometimes futile attempt at visual recognition, you end up looking like you wish to skin the other person alive at that very spot with a brand new butcher knife, when all you’re are trying to do is earnestly contemplate if you have ever seen them before.
As if the act of arousing a stranger’s interest in a remotely interesting chatter isn’t Herculean enough, there is of course the painful humiliation to bear when he casually flicks his wrist from left to right and mouths, “see you around” without so much as asking for your phone number, crushing any vestige of hope that you might see him again, without coincidence playing a part in any future meetings, if they do occur that is.
You make a respectable exit form a lackluster meeting and move of to the next set of people in hopes of emulating a magical moment you may have witnessed in fiction before. Your conversation opens with a tentative smile as you wait for the perfect cue to interject with something remarkably witty. You succeed, he laughs, you laugh, you look, he looks, you look again this time more closely, you notice the hair (it’s styled and fashioned in a distinctly peculiar way), you observe the voice modulation(there is a certain whiny drawl to it), your grin widens as your mind goes “the dudes gay.”
The pressure to be infinitely charming and attractive eases, you slip into a causal but relaxed banter, everything seems great until the fine gentleman turns to you and says with a swagger , “so where can I meet some hot chicks in the city?” You want to erupt into fit of laughter but politely bite down a snigger, name a few places and make a quick exit, doubting for the first time your general intuitiveness about people. There was a time when gays were gays and straights were straights and our heroine could distinctively tell the difference between the two. As she inquiringly peers down at the generation below her, she is perplexed about this new hybrid crop of youngsters whose outward appearance is distinctively queer, but are unhesitant about declaring their affections for the fairer sex, talk about confused!
As the night progresses, so does the levels of alcohol in everyone’s blood stream. By then our anonymous lead is somewhat over the initial disappointment of being blatantly rejected by someone she considers a fine specimen of the male variety. She gingerly holds her plastic cup filled to the brim with suspiciously large quantities of alcohol and “mingles” through the limited confines of the space. Her eyes gleam unnaturally from the liquor rapidly coursing at an alarming rate through her blood stream; her cheeks flush form the heat of the vodka, little beads of sweat form on her forehead indicating the advent of what promises to be a stifling summer. All insecurities and anxieties that may have previously been a cause of great dismay now seem frivolous. She is truly having a wonderful time, because nothing anyone says makes the slightest sense!
