*Note- It helps if you've read T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land"
Every Saturday the same people
walk into the same bar.
Same fucking people,
week after week; and I among them.
Wasting time.
Wasting life.
Wasting money.
I swear the same songs are played
week in, week out.
Why do they do this?
Why do I do this?
Wasted opportunity.
I regret every decision that led me to this wasted land.
Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Blood is like wine.
Couples. Count them.
One, two, three.
How long have they been together?
Love. Lust. Whatever. Everyone's favorite damn disease.
Do you know who I am? Sitting across the room.
I'm the girl in the hat and trenchcoat.
So vintage.
Come to me lover, buy me a drink.
Get me wasted. I'm in this wasted land; might as well join in.
I don't have a million dollars to spend.
I see her across the bar.
If she's one of them, she's cute.
Blonde, tattooed. Like you.
My virgin skin, no stories on the surface.
Her stories, skin deep. Like yours.
Competition is a waste.
Of time.
Of money.
Of energy.
The music keeps this place as silent as a concert.
No chatter drifting to the farthest corner where I sit.
Dead place.
Why do I keep coming?
Look the part of the french writer, sitting, making believe she is Eliot.
Eliot wasn't French.
Oh fuck off and play along.
Yeah fat bitch, I'm skinny, young and better looking.
And you have a man.
Ce la vie.
I'll take my independence and run.
Lo que paso, paso entre tu y yo.
She doesn't need to know.
So glad you don't kiss and tell and I don't know her.
Works out nicely.
Sinking deeper in the muck and grime and shit of every day living.
Pour me another, Lover.
Help me get wasted. FTW.
God this music is at least ten years old.
"Off the chain"
There's something you don't hear anymore. Middle school.
What shitty years.
Sitting alone at lunch.....Fuck, don't point out the irony.
And there they all sit
like nighthawks living out their individual little lives.
Lovers will be loved.
Friends will gossip.
The lonely will always try and look preoccupied with a life that occurs
anywhere but here.
A small crowd begins to form around the bar.
Two and a half hours till last call.
How many drown their wasted lives at the bottom of a Bud Light?
Pinky swear? Pinky swear.
She's deep in the wasted land.
I can tell as she twirls herself around in her bar stool.
Slash's guitar solo in "Sweet Child of Mine" sounds like sexual ecstasy.
Those few minutes before orgasm.
Oh Lover. If only I didn't work tomorrow morning.
If only she wasn't here.
I want you in my bed.
I want you inside me.
And just as suddenly, the moment passes and I'm left in the Wasted Land.
I wanna be your lover.
So appropo.
Close me out.
Get me out of this Wasted Land.
I can't stand this noise much longer.
The looks.
They look at me like I don't belong.
Please don't look at me.
No, look at me. Make me feel like I exist.
Have I wasted away here?
When the lights out, it's less dangerous.
Turn out the lights!
Go to bed!
Leave the Wasted Land.
Until next week.
Introducing the new Weaponized Culture
12 years ago