Grace, come back. I need your friendship like a geek lacking social capital.
It's a strange sea of delirium when you're locked in the cage of freedom. So soon am I high on life and then tumbling deep into the weeds of panic. Innocence lost. Not paradise. Somebody call Milton and tell him to get relevant to our needs...
Grace has been absent, and therefore, I've been forced to sit and ponder the dreary weather alone at my cyber confessional. We've been out of touch lately. She's off, wandering the island's less frequented avenues under the guise of a mature young woman with even more mature ideals. Sure, we know how far that'll get you. A lap dance in the elevator at the Staten Island Mall or maybe a job at the supermarket where you can inhale the fishy odor of baby products and tampons just sitting appropriately next to the seafood counter.
Fuck my life. My best friend is out whoring. I'm home alone...sick....maybe.
What is sickness to the Generation With Information, anyway? Is it an excuse to flee the confines of our intimidating futures predestined to either country clubs or alleyways? Is it the proverbial vaccine for our losses that we endure on behalf of our naivete? Or is it a simple defense mechanism that alarms our souls to abandon ship before we plunge into the icy depths on the Capitalism Atlantic?
Alas! My heart flutters so! There is no light at the end of the tunnel when thirty car pile-ups of broken homes and panic disorders block our exit. But hey? At least we can all party before the flood waters drown out our make-out sessions of protest.
Oh wait? Was that a lie too? I cant hear my sexual needs flourish over the sound of your social Darwinism.
Sexy? Is that a currency in your country? Well sorry, even I was sexy (and I am, teehee), there's little chance in hell you're gonna' force me to partake in the outrageous stock market exchange of courtship in this city. I'll find me a man when faith brings him to me on his pathetic, feminine knee. I can only pray he'll be donning a multicolor frock of glory atop an overly skinny or profoundly portly torso. That's the key, you dig? The less acceptable by your Sunday School teacher, the higher the probability your partner is one of the untainted virgins who are undergound. And I'm all about the undergound, bitches.
It's a police state out there - a state of emergency. Don't lose hope now, we're just getting to the good part. Ya' like thunderstorms? Get ready, honeys. We are about to have them all the fucking time.
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