So last Saturday I threw a party. It began with Vince Guaraldi Trio, Spinach Dip, and candlelight. It ended with a stripper and Marilyn Manson. Go figure.
Many things happened, but despite the free lap dance, my favorite part of the night was making someone cry. A few fellows came by our house earlier that day to invite us to a party. We extended the same offer to them. Well, two of them showed around three in the morning. Somehow the conversation turned to the topic of America, and if you don't know what you are talking about, don't talk to me.
Well, his argument boiled down to this: You don't understand. Bad things are happening, you don't understand. America. Bad things. In America. Things.
It was banal, without substance, and uninformed. I tried to debate him, but he kept interrupting with empty verbal strands. I started pushing him around for some reason, and would have slapped him up if my house mate didn't stop me. Eventually I realized he was crying, I called him a little bitch.
His final words? I don't understand, man. Cue whimper and storm out. Maybe he was too drunk, but that's no excuse, I drink more whiskey than water.
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