proof that nothing gets me posting faster than a paper due

2/9/07

The room was empty when I got there.
Okay, it wasn't really empty; there were counters, and pastry displays, and formica structures, and employees, and maybe even a customer or two, but walking in it felt as if the room had been empty, as if I had missed the party and there was nothing left but empty beer bottles and misplaced cigarette butts.
Walking into that room felt like walking into the vaccuum that had coated my day, a natural consequence of the supernova that was the night before.
The party--the house was just so: strategically placed reproductions of post-modern art. Who the fuck knows what post-modernism means anyway and isn't it a contradiction?
The screened-in porch moaned under the weight of all that intellect and the black turtle-neck sweaters crowded in front of the door like they were waiting for the band to take the stage.
The contempt and power struggle was thick. If literary criticism had a smell it would be the sickly-sweet combination of pot, clove cigarettes, and trendy cheap beer.
I can spot that PBR logo from a mile away.
The once individual cells multiplied like a cancer, feeding on itself, getting louder and louder until words failed and gestures replaced speech as the means of communication.
Man, there's no gesture, no hand movement, that can demonstrate "hermeneutics"
Like the house was, now after the guests had gone, the bottles had been recycled, and the artwork had been adjusted, empty: this room felt like it had always been empty.
No matter how many people filtered in and out of its doors, no matter how many conversations I had engaged in, nothing severd to cleanse me of the feeling that I was imposing myself, and my presence alone meant I was trying too hard.