Outside, the vultures still don't approach me waving a flyer. Why not? I go to clubs, I have plenty of (the state's) money (at times), and I'm your typical, fun-loving student. It must be the impression I give off, I decide. It doesn't say "give me a flyer and I'll see you at the bar." It says, "You take one step closer and I'll bite your head off!" I turn around and catch my reflection in a window. Haha! Yeah.
Oh yeah? Well, I'll tell you what, if I want a flyer I'll bloody get one. I'm gonna march right up to Dwayne or whatever his name is with his out-of-bed hair and and self-styled t-shirt and demand a flyer or else! Ah, fuck that. I don't want one, I don't want to go to the club, I just want to go into this art gallery and see my friend.
Most people have to work to earn money. Be it retail (where I reside), builder, teacher or thief. It all takes effort. But not everyone, it seems, oh no. Not one, not two, but FOUR of my friends (almost everyone I know) get to sit behind a desk in an art gallery clicking some device every time someone comes through the door. This allows them to get on with other things; uni work, if needed; reading, if your that way inclined; social networking, honing your digital personality. I go though the entrance and Lee glances up from a book, clicking his clicker right on cue.
"Alright, Lee," says I.
"Alright, Lee," says Lee, we're both called Lee. "What are you up to?"
"Just been to the library, but the book I wanted isn't there," I avoid mentioning the paranoid tendencies occurring earlier in the park for various reasons - there seems to be no solution, I am forever doomed to relate that part of the park with Chloe, thus making the conversation pointless - but apart from that, bringing up the Chloe topic only seems to make the Chloe ordeal more real, solidifying the fact that it actually happened. If I don't talk about it maybe I can convince myself it never did, can't do that if I've talked to others about it - what if they bring it up? Nope, don't subscribe to this 'get it off your chest' bullshit, store it away in a corner of your head and worry about the inevitable tumour when it happens and not before.
"Do you need it for your work?" Lee continues, referring to the book.
"Dunno," I shrug, "probably, but maybe not. Not completely sure whether I need that book at all; my essay is slowly becoming less and less focused, any other book would probably be just as beneficial. I've started to question the very validity of the essay, and in doing so question my role and purpose on this course, and as a student. . . "
"Sounds like an existentialist crisis," says Lee with a grin. Everything's an existential crisis according to Lee. It means nothing to me. "Probably go for a pint after uni if your interested," he says. "I finish work at four so . . . ."
I give an approving nod and go for a quick lap around the art gallery. Soaking up some culture, as it were. Art is in the eye of the beholder, I think to myself with a reassuring nod, which means no one is ever wrong and price tags don't mean shit. It's the user-friendly explanation.
Hmm, a pint tonight, that sounds alright. I'm looking at some blood on the wall. Art blood. I head back over to Lee.
"What are you doing tonight then?" I ask.
"Dunno," he replies, "probably do the pint in the bar and then head home, eat, and eh... well, could go for another drink later?"
"Yeah, sure," I nod. Lee nods. I nod again. "See you later."
I leave the gallery and take a moment to decide what to do now. I have four hours or so until I meet Lee and potentially a few other people. I go home.
Nothing exiting happens during these four hours, apart from various acts designed to sustain ones existence; eat, drink, watch Countdown.
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