Oct 2013
It was nice to be invited, but now I regret agreeing to this.
The light in here is too artificial; the vibrant pink almost strangles the dark blue before transforming into an eerie green. It is strobing, spinning, scanning, pointing, observing the rapid decline of morality around the room. It's not even comforting like light should be, it is assaulting the senses and coaxing for trouble.
The floor is sticky, lined with a layer of spilt drinks and the trash the bottom of shoes bring in; cigarette butts, chewed gum, ***** and hopelessness. The walls are plush but I don't want to touch them- I don't understand why they are sticky too...perhaps one too many drinks thrown at ****** guys?
The roof is low, caving in on everyone inside. The room has about 400 more people than it can hold, and I am being smothered by un asked for touches and nudges, pulls and pushes. I can feel someone thrusting into the back of me while the couple in front (who don't know each other) almost fall on top of me in a desperate attempt to show the room that they have no cares- they will have *** right in front of you if they have to.
The music is way too loud. And not the fun sort of too loud that's often cranked up at parties or in the car, but shatteringly loud, drowning out any attempt of speech. Why should these people care? They don't care who they let under their clothes, or what their name might be. And why am I not like that? Why am I the only one in this God forsaken night club not throwing my body at someone. I mustn't be normal.
The girls in the bathroom are smoking **** and swallowing pills- they aren't even trying to be secretive about it- the sink is filled with all types of substances. I can't find a corner to go and just be until it is time to leave.
I don't understand why I am the only one like this. I tried my best to look pretty tonight. I poured hot wax on my skin, layering paper on top to latch onto my hair and rip it out. I used expensive products, layer after layer just to cover my spots. Even though I am allergic to it, I took a pencil to my eye lids and pulled my lashes with a mascara brush. I didn't eat so as to not smudge my lipstick. I squeezed myself into the only dress I own, the one I can't breathe out in. I forced myself to wear shoes with sticks supporting them. I can't walk in heels, but if I don't I am ridiculed and stand a head shorter than the rest of the room.
And now I'm here, and do you think anyone gives a ****** **** how long it took me to get ready? Do you think anyone cares that the wire of this bra is cutting into my flesh? No. I know why, too, because I am not wearing anything like everyone else. I am the only one who's dress gathers at my knees, and as far as I can tell, the only one wearing a bra. I don't care if other people want to dress like that, good for them, but it'd be nice to know that people actually want to know you for other reasons than *** with a blind face to brag about later.
I am watching girls do anything, no matter how uncomfortable they feel, to please their companions. If this is what I have to look forward to as being a young adult, I don't like it. At all.
The light in here is too artificial; the vibrant pink almost strangles the dark blue before transforming into an eerie green. It is strobing, spinning, scanning, pointing, observing the rapid decline of morality around the room. It's not even comforting like light should be, it is assaulting the senses and coaxing for trouble.
The floor is sticky, lined with a layer of spilt drinks and the trash the bottom of shoes bring in; cigarette butts, chewed gum, ***** and hopelessness. The walls are plush but I don't want to touch them- I don't understand why they are sticky too...perhaps one too many drinks thrown at ****** guys?
The roof is low, caving in on everyone inside. The room has about 400 more people than it can hold, and I am being smothered by un asked for touches and nudges, pulls and pushes. I can feel someone thrusting into the back of me while the couple in front (who don't know each other) almost fall on top of me in a desperate attempt to show the room that they have no cares- they will have *** right in front of you if they have to.
The music is way too loud. And not the fun sort of too loud that's often cranked up at parties or in the car, but shatteringly loud, drowning out any attempt of speech. Why should these people care? They don't care who they let under their clothes, or what their name might be. And why am I not like that? Why am I the only one in this God forsaken night club not throwing my body at someone. I mustn't be normal.
The girls in the bathroom are smoking **** and swallowing pills- they aren't even trying to be secretive about it- the sink is filled with all types of substances. I can't find a corner to go and just be until it is time to leave.
I don't understand why I am the only one like this. I tried my best to look pretty tonight. I poured hot wax on my skin, layering paper on top to latch onto my hair and rip it out. I used expensive products, layer after layer just to cover my spots. Even though I am allergic to it, I took a pencil to my eye lids and pulled my lashes with a mascara brush. I didn't eat so as to not smudge my lipstick. I squeezed myself into the only dress I own, the one I can't breathe out in. I forced myself to wear shoes with sticks supporting them. I can't walk in heels, but if I don't I am ridiculed and stand a head shorter than the rest of the room.
And now I'm here, and do you think anyone gives a ****** **** how long it took me to get ready? Do you think anyone cares that the wire of this bra is cutting into my flesh? No. I know why, too, because I am not wearing anything like everyone else. I am the only one who's dress gathers at my knees, and as far as I can tell, the only one wearing a bra. I don't care if other people want to dress like that, good for them, but it'd be nice to know that people actually want to know you for other reasons than *** with a blind face to brag about later.
I am watching girls do anything, no matter how uncomfortable they feel, to please their companions. If this is what I have to look forward to as being a young adult, I don't like it. At all.
Recounting the time I went to a night club. Never again.
