Death Race 2000

Dear St. Misfit:

I just finished watching Death Race 2000 at the Station. It changed my LIFE. I’d seen bits and scraps of it before, but this time I was paying full attention, Jack Daniels in hand, waiting for you to get off of work. Apparently some ghetto tattoo or another is going on for quite a while. Is is some fat girl’s tribal butterfly tramp stamp? Some redneck biceps’s flag-clutching spread-winged eagle? A Giger on a gorgeous goth chick? Who knows?

All I know is I ended up meeting up with the Hot Lesbian Brigade, who had developed a drink named the Bea Arthur and spent fifteen minutes persuading me to try it. This unholy concoction consisted of prune juice and whiskey over ice and warranted a frat-boy chug if I ever saw one. Which is what it got. I have no idea if the Bloody Mary in front of me is going to mix well with it, but I guess we will see. I have been at a very sleepy Orange County Social Club for a hot minute, talking to Alvis about his 30+ years in the bar business, watching him make my extra-spicy drink without the slightest bit of quickness but an alarmingly impressive amount of efficiency.

By the way, if you’re wondering at all, I tore my hand up on a beer bottle last night at the Hell Dance Party and it’s all bandaged and weird, so band practice sort of suffered. It wasn’t terrible, though, which is good, because I won’t be there for the next three practice nights since I’m going to Comicon and whatnot.

Which brings me to my next point. I do believe I may miss you just a tiny inkling next week, maybe more, when I am in New York. I have quite grown used to seeing you nightly in all your sleeved-out glory, your monotone pushing past those omnipresent dimples, talking with your eyes focused on my face, then slightly above and to the left of it, and then back again, about your latest tattoo shop shenanigans and what you would do if your imaginary future ex-girlfriend ever decided she wanted to be polyamorous. “Break up with her,” you say, at which moment my built-in bias-identification meter always goes haywire.

I am hardly near the point of touching your thigh to illustrate a point, much less anywhere close to claiming you indefinitely, though I wouldn’t mind it. I cannot tell what you’re thinking, though I enjoy trying to figure it out. You appear so straightforward and easy to figure out that I can’t tell if I’m reading you correctly or not, and it is thrilling and infuriating.

I didn’t think I especially wanted to be anyone’s girlfriend, and I doubt you want to claim me as such, but when two opposite-gendered decorated faux-hipsters in hoodies and torn kicks stumble down the street at the speed of light clutching bomber-sized Red Bulls and full-flavor filters and imitating Benny Lava dance moves, it is hard for them to deny some sort of faint connection born of similar style and awkward social interaction and you KNOW it. I know you do.  And it’s turning you into an exception, and you need to be aware of this.

So here’s the deal. I just want you to know that I’m at Orange County Social Club, and not at the Station (since the movie’s over and all), so if you’re still coming out for a water or two, you’ll know where to find me. Come over! And we’ll talk about your behavior at the Hell Dance Party last night, and of the fact that you have to solder needles in the morning, and about whatever other nonsense we talk about that means nothing and everything but mostly nothing, which is refreshing. And then you’ll drive home in your goth brother’s station wagon full of prescription pills and I’ll wonder what sort of emoticon you’re going to insert into the text message you’ll inevitably send me when you’re safe at home in Pittsboro and (maybe, hopefully) wishing you were at my house playing Rock Band until 6 a.m, never stopping, never touching, and certainly never making eye contact. Then maybe as you’re out the door we’ll quickly discuss The Librabat and why he’s perfect, or that girl you liked until she got a boyfriend and you punched him the face in the throes of a tequila stupor.

Deal? K cool. See ya soon?

Love,

Mandey.

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