In the party

I don’t know what you think when you sit unbothered or say, when you’re not in a rush to distract yourself with something. I think I think about a party that I’m late to. All of the room smells of ruined cocktail strainers and sushi leftovers. I reckon big talks of things bigger than life and better than who’s fucking who has taken place here. There were artists and writers and can sniffers, you know, the sort of people power hates? At certain point, someone was taking shots for something that they brought to the table. Oh that’s Warhol’s shoeprint. So, he was here. There’s Cohen’s Fedora. Or did he wear a Trilby hat? I think I’m not surprised that I just found Hemingway’s scribbling on a napkin. This surely was a fun party. It’s very valid to feel left out, I think. Why would they invite me to the party? I was late, or I was not bringing something to the table. You know there’s a scene in Monty Python’s Holy Grail. A Black knight who has lost his arms in a duel. But he goes “Tis but a scratch.” and King Arthur, who is the opponent goes “A scratch? your arm’s off.” but the black knight keeps hitting him with his legs until they’re chopped too. It’s silly, you get a good laugh. It’s also what it feels like, in the leftover mess of this party. Armless, Legless Knight. Tend to celebrate your bravery for being in the fight, or your desperation for being in the party. But left with feeling foolish for fighting without a weapon, coming to lick sangria off the ground in a party I don’t feel invited to. So I turn back for confidence, or what’s left of it. And as I drag myself to the exit door, I see you in the corner with a half burnt cigarette. I suppose you’re not high, neither have you been ruined on some obscuring drink. So you were late too. I should head home, my faith is at stake. I should stay. We should make a party. I hope it’s worth it.