My afternoon as an ear

I am devoid of inspiration.

As I sit here contemplating my thesis and ignoring the void of meaningless thoughts that enter my otherwise pre-occupied brain, I realize that everyone who has stopped by my table this afternoon has been a man with an opinion. An a need to be listened to.

I have sat here and listened to all of them greet me, compliment me, whine, narrate, explicate (is that a word?), uselessly comment, lazily smile, request a favor from, dispense grandfatherly advice, randomly blab, thought out aloud and yes, subconsciously hit on me.

I realize that to most of them, women like me are sounding boards, nannies, and at most a pleasant distraction.

A view of the dance floor

Without emotional attachments, anything is possible. The irony is, almost every human achievement was driven by some emotion.
While watching a male friend down on the dance floor gyrating with a random female of his choice, I realized that were I emotionally invested in him, a fun night out would inevitably have turned sour just because he was practically dry humping another female who wasn't me.
Which led me to hazily conclude that, women really should stop this whole latching on to the idea of one man to make her happy philosophy. I mean, the male friends I was with that night had no problem chatting up any woman who would innocently (or not) wander within play distance. The girls however, just danced the night away within the comfort zone of our little group, settling for our guy friends instead of wandering off to meet someone new. And these girls weren't exactly fresh out of the convent either.

All those people hipping and hopping and grinding away down on the dance floor on a Friday night. Some in groups, in pairs, soloistas. Everyone of them out for some sort of release from the week that was, from reality, and from the isolation of being in a crowd.
My friend had found a girl, had wrapped his arms around her and had closed his eyes to the beat, pretending that for a few minutes they had some connection. That he could find solace in the arms of another human being.
Thank heavens his girl wasn't there.
whatever. I don't think this counts as I wasn't exactly thinking straight when I came up with this skewed logic. All I'm saying is that, I suppose having the capacity to turn ice queen is an advantage. Sorta. Blah.
And where was I watching this colorful nature dance from? From the more elevated chill lounge which turned out to be incredibly dull and filled with the pretentious chill crowd who could no more than shake their booties in their tight designer outfits than down a respectable shot of anything stronger than a watered down cocktail.
This of course led me and a couple of sloshed, faggy friends to break into dance just to get the party started, or at the very least raise some eyebrows.

Bottle opener's fault

So this whole piece will start with so....

So after editing hell and coffee, we finally decide to cook something at Casa kitchen. Onion rings, felafal (not sure its spelled that way) and some ref cake. course I get stuck making the cake. everything turns out great except for (surprise!) the cake. although I had made it a hundred times before, the cream didn't have enough time to "solidify" and such, turning my lil masterpiece into ref semi-soup. blahr. still tasted great though.
So we all decide to have a nightcap in the room. All goes well until a resident stoner who will remain unnamed decides to pop his head in and just, oh so randomly throw a joint onto my bed. Random gift isn't rolled in paper yet so I head out to find someone who can solve little problem.
So am in hallway trying to find stoner friend when I bump into other dude who is known to have ample supply of, urm, rolling paper material and such. I get invited back to his room for proper sesh. But I am first asked to go look for bottle opener for said friend. Bottle opener not found and other friends not recruited. On way back to room alone (and under scrutiny of newly installed security cameras) I bump into male batchmate who has nasty smile on his face as he notices which room I'm headed towards. Dumb model also sees me and smirks. If the damn security cameras could smirk I'm sure they would have. Due to idiotic perception logic, I am now part of "slutty" Casa population who sleeps around since I am seen entering a guy's room at an ungodly eleven pm.
So now I'm done smoking the joint and don't give a flying rat's ass what ya'll think.
Knowing all our track records, I must be the only monk in the building.

Ole!

Actors are funny creatures. Good looking, but funny.
One minute it's "Oh you're so interesting, and you smell so goood, what is your perfume?"
Close up of his face in your hair.
And then it's "O you are single yes? Perhaps I can pretend to be your boyfriend?"
Mid-shot of you trying to contain sarcastic snort.
"Sure, why not"
Wide shot of an uber beautiful model walking by.
Close up of his head swivelling an unbelievable one-eighty degrees.
"Excuse me yes? I'll see you soon gorgeous" Close up on his movie star smile.
Wide shot of him running off towards model.
Fade to black.

Ahahahaahahaha.....geeeeez, no wonder showbusiness is sooooo screwed up. It's all game and agenda. Yeah, yeah....you're thinking that if they can play that game, you can too...careful you don't bite off more than you can chew pare.