Tonight's Homecoming night, and a respectable number of my friends are there. Matt, Tim, and I were supposed to go see Rx Bandits tonight at the Nile, but Matt's sick as a couple of sick motherfucking dogs, so we ended up calling it off.
Hmm. The first two grafs of this post are now a telegraph from four hours ago. Tim and Kenzie came by, followed by Brian. As I opened the front door, he dropped his phone.
"What's up," I said.
"I dropped my phone," he said. He picked it up. "I brought cupcakes." Indeed. "I'm stating the obvious this evening." And he was.
We couldn't think of anything to do. There was talk of going to see Rules of Attraction or Tuck Everlasting, but nothing panned out. Ended up going to Timmy's and watching Silence of the Lambs. Stef, Jen, Chelsea M., and Allysia showed up later, Stef fresh from performing "Guys and Dolls," the other girls fresh from watching her. Tim's cat kept molesting Chelsea. Pretty funny.
Tonight's Homecoming, like I said when I first started writing this post four hours ago. My absence from the dancefloor isn't a grand statement of nonconformity, but it isn't entirely unwelcome, either. Last year, the afternoon before the dance, I was dropping Chuck off after a setday, then chugging out of his cul-de-sac thinking about how I had to go buy a shirt when I blew through a stop-sign and got T-boned by an Acura. So today is the one-year anniversary of the big gash by the right rear wheel-well on my truck. Dances can get you worked up into that kind of neglect for traffic law, so I didn't go this year. In fact, I stayed inside all day. There are people worth buying flowers for, worth putting on a tie for, but I'm dumb enough to think there will be other opportunities for that sort of thing. Truth is I'm running out of those opportunities. But truth's never stopped me before.
On the night of a high school dance, you can guarantee there's going to be a lot more indiscriminate fucking within, say, a ten-mile-radius. The Indiscriminate Fucking index is through the roof, and you can feel it. Cops are everywhere, because drinking and fucking go hand in hand with their old pal driving-fast-into-things. It's the thing teen movies of all calibers are built on: hopes and dreams, fresh-faced swarms of girls primping in front of mirrors, her parents taking pictures, dinner, smashed corsages, that sort of thing. Potential for heartbreak everywhere. The sort of dangerous hormonal magic you don't want to associate yourself with more than once or twice a year if you don't have to. That's why I stayed in and watched a movie about a guy who eats people's faces.
Most people don't start pining poetically for their lost youths until their thirties. I'm saving myself the time and whining about wasted teenhood while I'm in the midst of it.
I've never stood on a cliff so I can't say for certain how it feels, but when I think seriously about how close I am to graduating and living this all behind, that's what I imagine it must be like. It's cold and windy and a long way down.
Strange mood tonight, can you tell?
Oh, and mostly for the sake of Naomi, who clamors for captions on these pictures, the centerpiece in the one above is Taryn. Ain't she just the cutest thing? Her birfday was last Wednesday. Also pictured are Sam, and the shoulders of Greg and Braden. I don't know why I'm doing this courtesy for a girl who hasn't updated her blog since she got it.