Sometimes I don't know why I go out. Like out to the clubs or to that party. I mean this isn't a new thing that's just started with D.J. No I used to do this sort of thing before. But not regularly of course. I hate what I see in the clubs or the house parties. Women bent over like dogs and men bouncing from one to the other. It's a little different now but not that much. Men instead of putting a ring on a woman's hand and committing to her, drunken her for that which should be saved for marriage. Others drug. Some women show off their bodies and act promiscuously to get a drink instead of pulling out their own cash. Some use the ugly lonely men standing or sitting off to themselves. Extremely vulnerable not only because of the lack of good looks that permits them to attract women, but they are fresh from a divorce and desperately seeking a rebound--more so comfort. Others who are shy and not much of the party, who if it were not for their friends would be home enjoying a quiet movie with popcorn and their lover, drink until they no longer restrain themselves and then become the life of the party. Both men and women, hunting around the club exchanging eyes and glances and smirks and smiles--like wolves in sheep's clothing, only interested in getting laid later on tonight. Not realizing that both parties are worth so much more than a one night stand. And the music that drowns the air along with the smoke, like an illusion--a mask but not really, hiding it's true face, but propaganding the sickness of this world. And the beat is so sweet that you don't realize it's poison.
I look at D.J. And he looks at me.
"I thought I was the only one."
I had a friend once who pointed all this out to me when I was apart of this sickness. A sickness so strong and so captivating it was like a blindness--worse total darkness that I took for my light. She called such things incorrectness. I recall once in a similar setting as this with her on my right and my friend Liz on my left, she said, " . . . And I ask again . . . What is this world coming to? So much incorrectness and so little time." I remember frowning at her through the dark of the party trying to read her expression--her, of which this craziness had come. But her face was as mine is now and D.J.'s is. Just a calm and humbled--concerned but just so face. I remember looking out into the sea of destruction disguised as pleasant waters, sweet to the tongue and gentle to the touch . . . Later that night it was still pleasant and gentle but after awhile it began to burn. Like being in the sun for to long my body began to scar with injuries that seemed unhealable. But my friend Liz, she grabbed my hand, "Come on girl. There ain't nothin wrong with this."
But there was something wrong. Two boys kissing on each other, girls dancing on each other, a humping party rather than a party, rather a sex party with clothes on. Boys smoking weed and girl's weave catching fire which was supposed to be funny, and boys fighting not realizing that they're brothers, you couldn't say that wasn't wrong. Of course you might come around and say it's not after painting over it so many times--thing is, no matter how much you sugar coded it--it was still there.
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