City of Singles Read Free Page B

which rise forever into an inky heaven. Heavy bass notes of generic electro-trash thumps away sync’ed with gyrations of the beauties everywhere around me. I’m holding a drink. She’s gone. I die.

3 Sailing Through Sunday
    Having a smooth face and neatly combed hair once fostered a great sense of pride. The point was to look friendly, wanting to appear trustworthy and stable. Today’s feature look is halfway between whatever and dumpster. It doesn’t seem to matter how you present yourself when the goal has nothing to do with presentability. Darkly lit house parties or bars don’t judge over a few days growth, pants sagging as per usual, beltless and worn with dirty shoes. Twenty dollar graphic shirt splashed with sparkling metallic fabric. Add a hoodie and it makes a Vancouver tuxedo. In fact, one can argue that the less you give a fuck, the more you’ll be rewarded.
    I don’t have any tattoos. It’s hard to find enough faith to believe in anything, let alone something to inspire putting ink under my skin. Hard to not find a coincidence that almost any self-aggrandizing musician or pseudo artist will be covered in sleeves of modern empty icons. Praying hands and religious symbols for those of little to no faith, dice with playing cards for those who need to show they game the system. Men inked with messages of love towards family while not paying support, raising children without the guidance they publicly profess. Screams to the world through symbolism and external expression, meanwhile the inner voice of these same people remains silent; often only listening to echoes of what the popular narrative is. Imagine the Pope, the Dhali Lama, and the Sihk gurus covered in tattoos, wearing slogans to convince themselves of messages they don’t even believe in.
    Ink can become a very real god to those seeking salvation through art, only this canvas dies.
    Stale loft air wringing out every last drop of dopamine from my brain.
    Leaving bed or dying are the only options left. A wet back against satin sheets works better than any alarm. Here we go again, shuffling through my routine on autopilot. Taking a shower, brushing teeth and shaving my neck to not look like such a loser. I’m bored. The sky outside a brilliant electric blue. Mornings don’t really exist in my world, just light or dark.
    I get dressed in some cheap jeans that hug my crotch, a pretty nice bulge for the women to check out. Ex-lover female friends have told me that they leer at men as much as they get leered at. I’m too caught up with the thought of having some plaything to hang out with tonight to remember to put on underwear. Couch leather groans and stretches, the weight from six feet and two hundred pounds pressing into it. This little bit of spare tire should be a gut given what I eat, drug-filled nights and mornings spent emptying organs serve to keep calorie counts down.
    A silent vibration muffled by the couch, reminding me of a fart crushed into an office chair. Sometimes I forget to turn my cell phone ringer back on and people wait outside my building in the rain. It’s not funny, but sometimes I giggle when soaked bodies walk in. The little switch on the side clicks on as my eyes catch the latest pop-up, it’s a notification of an invite to a beach party through Facebook. The list of people going is looking grungier than a Pabst Blue Ribbon clearance sale at Commercial and Venables. Envisioning the scene I frown at the thought of doing this again, listening to self-absorbed people talk about meaningless shit, a social jousting of bragging and men trying too hard to get laid.
    Electronic music spun by backwards-hatted 40 year-olds, shitty bass with warm beer, listening to blackberry owners talk about LV, BBM, and YOLO.
    Now rewind ten years ago, the pussy was a little harder to get, the crowds were smaller, and I didn’t mind making new friends. Deja vu happens all too often, I can predict the conversations and how I’ll get my dick