A can of Coors in the closet means, that college that didn’t want you?
Fuck them
A joint in the backyard will surely take the edge off
This week’s breakup
German elixirs and Mexican piss water and fuzzy little bundles of flora
They’ve become our masters
This is one instance of servitude I can get behind

We drink to escape this place
We inhale to forgot what’s at stake
We become animals
And this
This is the only time when we’re real
This isn’t life
It’s something better

And you arrive and
There’s a table of food
Which no one goes near out of fear of puking on his partner

There’s a DJ
He’s got an obnoxious voice and even more obnoxious hair
He’s probably from Bensonhurst
He’s italian but not Italian
The music he plays is terrible and loud and pitty
And you pray he blows out the speakers
It would make all this so much easier

And we dance and none of us are very good at it
So, like everything else,
Intelligence
Beauty
Loyalty
Talent
Love,
We fake it
And, like everything else, we fake it so well
And it works

The popular girls will dance in the middle, dead-center and front
The unattractive ones dance to the perimeter
There are plenty of popular girls who are what you’d call
Less than pretty
They just work harder in other areas
None of the good looking ones are unpopular

Calculus teachers and English teachers hover like carrion crows
“No funny stuff”
Gym teachers are guard dogs of the hallways
“Don’t go down that way”
They all serve as a reminder
You’re always being watched,
So don’t fuck up

And then it’s over
And you’re left to face long empty streets at midnight
You’ll see the wide-eyed faces of the nocturnal beasts you were with minutes ago
And they’re left to wander the sidewalks and scurry from house to house
Searching for sustenance of any kind

And as you drive by one, you stare down one another
And wonder, why don’t more of them end up as road kill?
And wonder, maybe we do