My age shows every time I go out after sundown, feeling increasingly out-of-place in places where young people throw themselves into paroxysm, finding zero appeal in the thirty-second bits of song that wind and shift their way through the DJ’s sets. I’ll be the first to admit some of it is cultural; this is a distilled, refined, and wholly uninteristing iteration of something evolved from something in which I was tangentially interested once, albeit with a completely different angle of approach. Now, my discomfort flirts between apathy and antipathy as I plug my ears and hope my back doesn’t spasm while I’m somewhere people can see me.
They Can’t See Me takes its name partially from the Hum lyric, partially from the notion of my disinterest in social convention even as it gets me closer to something relevant to my interests. I don’t know why I thought going out was a good idea; all I am is tired and sore, hoping something as interesting as the fight I just saw the short asshole pick with a bouncer happens again, albeit without the fisticuffs.
And, as if on cue, it happens again. White guy getting manhandled by some African dude; bouncers intervene in short order, African dude tries to talk his way out of getting thrown the fuck out.
I almost wish I bounced.
I don’t want to work tomorrow.
