at least I had some shrimp cocktails

“It’s one of those Gatsby-like parties”, she told me with an air of delight that would be cute if she wasn’t a little bit too old (yeah, old people tend to be ridiculous when they are trying to be cute).

“Yeah. Such a pretty house and shit.”, I agreed, with nothing much to add.

And the house was indeed pretty. Very high ceiling for an apartment, a set of cool stairs that would go to the best  bedroom with a bathroom en-suite in the duplex. The apartment belonged to a man of the arts, a painter, or some other source of pretentious shit like this – I didn’t know, I barely knew who he was, wouldn’t ever have heard of this man if his name wasn’t published on an article some over hyped, overrated magazine these kids like these days.

So, this article that published his name didn’t publish his picture, so I had no fucking idea how this guy looked like. I only knew he was throwing an open-house party and his apartment was cool. I was invited by a friend, who had a friend who knew a guy that knew this painter-guy. So… here I was. Anyway, high ceiling, stairs. The living room was huge, separated in two different ambiances by a wall with a humongous fish tank in the middle. The light was good, suave, and a dilettante photographer took pictures of everything around, but not the fish.

That’s why I hate dilettante photographers. Hunger artists without purpose, living in their misery, they never hang around pretty places on the inside. They can’t appreciate beauty, they can’t recognize a Monet. They must have shock value, distorted prettiness. Hence, we’ll have, forever, the pictures of the dirty houses that them and their friends live at, the crummy apartments where they share afternoons, and of the outside world – the dirty streets, with poverty and garbage, because it’s free. Yeah yeah, damn poor aspiring photographers – always on your sick beauty ! We are truly tired of your photos of the city streets and of your macros of every-fucking-thing. Go read a book on art. Get a real fucking job or starve to death already.

Anyway, the photographer took pictures, pointed that shit to my face, and I probably wouldn’t look good in the blue fish  tank light, but I sticked around anyway. That was when the old girl made the useless reference to Fitzgerald that started this report.

See, she wasn’t really old, she was just hype. Young girls make themselves look old, ’cause it’s hype. Granny pants, grandpa sweaters. Heavy make-up, sparkling clothes – apparently, all rainbow colors at once is the new black. I just can’t understand it. Maybe I’ve been in the house too long, or maybe us writers are just tacky – we truly don’t have any sense of  fashion, do we? But fuck this, as a human being, I have the right to my opinion, and all these colors fucking hurt my eyes.

The make-up made her face plastered like cement, and she had that dull, emotionless, blodshot eyes of people on coke. I am a little bit drunk too, I must say. or maybe I’m very drunk. Free booze, an open house. free food. Free booze. Booze. Why the fuck wouldn’t I be drunk? Anyhow, I cringed in the need for a cigarette. I was bored, my cup was almost empty, I needed something to occupy my hands. and Party crasher as I was, I didn’t bring any cigarettes with me (too broke for that). I made a comment to the ridiculous girl:

“I really could use a smoke right now, ya know?”, while I looked at the sides to see if any smoking was rising from the sofas or the corners of the kitchen.

But then, as I looked at her, she was handing me a cigarette that she had produced out of thin air. She took the first smoke, in a half-sexy smile, that would have been sexy if she wasn’t a little bit bucktoothed. She proceeded talking and talking about crap I didn’t care about, and I didn’t answer, just nodded, hypnotized by her ugly teeth and all that booze coming up to my brain.

She looked less ridiculous as I kept drinking, so, why the fuck not? I drank more. maybe I’d get to fuck her. up to one point, I didn’t even nod anymore. And, apparently, not nodding an being in half-comatose state makes you a good listener, what makes the women talk even more. definitely fucking her tonight. The more she talked, the more I drank and vice-versa, so it was a never ending roller coaster.

All that up to one moment in the night – I can’t clearly remember when – bucktoothed girl was suddenly gone, talking to some wannabe beatnik tall skinny guy. I was glad. I wouldn’t fuck her anyway, too drunk to get an erection. But, boy, that dude is so skinny, so fucking skinny, gosh he is completely vertical. There is nothing horizontal on this guy, he’s like a skyscraper. I wouldn’t fuck him either.

And the dilettante photographer was in the background, evidently too gay to function, taking pictures of the table with food, beer cans, and cigarette fags on coffee cups. Damn poor starved motherfucker, taking more uninteresting pictures of macros of food, probably because he can’t eat in real life. Freeload a bit, starving fucktard.

Anyway, I hadn’t seen the host yet. I come to this guy’s house, drink his beer, his vodka, eat his food and would probably steal something to take back as a memento (that would probably end up smashed against a trashcan in a corner or other) and still haven’t seen the guy’s face. I remember someone saying he was German, and that if you talked to a hole on the wall next to the sofa, the sound would come to his ears on his study room. It was one of his in-house artistic installations.

I hate “artistic installation”. What a crock of bullshit. If that indeed happened, the German bullshitter would already be deaf from all the clacking going on ’round here. This alleged hole was one of his artistic creations. The whole apartment was. It was pretty, i couldn’t deny it, but he ruined this with the excess of people and artsy-fartsy-art crap.

But who am I to say anything? I am eating shrimp like there is no tomorrow, in my banged-up Nike sneakers and gray sweater, for free. almost homeless, and eating shrimp. fuck yeah. like pigs being fed pearls. Yet, I want to see the German’s face, maybe smash a beer bottle on his head and call him bullshitting-bullshitter for all this crap he calls art, but only after thanking him for the shrimp. Yeah, it is that time of the night when I am feeling a little violent because of the booze.

But instead of looking for him, nature calls. I have to go to the upstairs bathroom because the downstairs one had become a conference room where two alternative girls are making out for an uninterested audience of voyeurs, which are too high on marijuana, smoking from a narguilé, sitting crossed-legged on the floor,  indian style. All this behind the fucking locked-close doors. I don’t understand why they feel the need to lock the fucking thing… they don’t want us to see them, disturb them? Well, not working, since we can all see through the barely tinted glass windows they are calling doors.

So, I go upstairs. the bathroom is indeed a paradise. I kick a guy sleeping on the door outside, and sit down at the toilet – no fucking way I could get the piss into the bowl correctly, because of how drunk I am. And, since I am too nice of a guy, I’ll have the courtesy of knowing that I’m eating and drinking for free, so I’m not pissing all over the German bullshitter’s bathroom floor. It is pretty sweet up here. I big toilet, a white, pristine sink… I relax on the toilet, letting the yellow warm lights sink in… Then, startled by laughter, I end up jumping from my throne and pissing the rug anyway.

I open the shower curtains and there is a fag and a dyke lying against each other, laughing of the scare they gave me. f-u-c-k-i-n-g assholes. I grab the cigarette from one of their hands – I can’t really tell one from the other, since they both look like boys that look like girls – wasup with these haircuts, fags? – and take a long drag. A really looooong one, with pleasure. And then I put it out on one of their heads full of hairs – once again can’t tell which head, because I can’t tell one from the other, since they both screamed like boys that sound like girls. The injured one opened the shower, making the bathtub a pool of cigarette fags and ashes. I laughed. Hard.

The poor white rug is now a filthy ashtray. Fucking nasty. the uninjured one runs down the stairs, screaming that there is a lunatic on the bathroom, a pyromaniac, these sort of shit. I am still laughing, this was really good. best moment of the night. A troglodyte comes up to take me downstairs and throw me out on the street. “I’ll escort you out”, he says.


As we pass the poolside, people look at me weirdly. The troglodyte had the decency to put me down on the floor, but he is pushing me away consistently. As we pass, I grab another cocktail from a plastic cup on someone’s hand and drink it, then replace it with a stolen beer bottle – if I am being obliged to go then, man! I gotta enjoy those last minutes! The bouncer keeps pushing, but the guy whose beer I stole dislikes it.

He follows us, and then pushes me around, reclaiming his beer back.


Bottle to the head.


His body in the pool. Open head in the pool.

The water becomes red. Such a shame the German bullshitter isn’t down here to see it. I hope he is observing from the upstairs balcony because, holy mother of god, isn’t this looking fucking artsy?

I hope the asshole doesn’t steal my idea. Fucking Gatsby party.


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