C-BUS GUNK

All these sad people crowd around and tip and toss and tip and toss 'em back. Humid with desperation, like trying to carve your way through melancholy green cheese, and I force feed it all to myself in a wild grab at feeling better. Fat girls dress themselves in low-cut shirts with the hope that there is at least one man in the world who is both sincere and enamored with massive breasts. All these self-fashioned fags and emo rockers gawk at ridiculous acrylic messes tacked to tar-stained walls, and primp and prep themselves to take over when the older idiots finally give way. The beautifully eclectic sorry sorts sort me out, and help keep my station of hypocritical observant. All the while, the famously rich glitz and glamour their way straight out of the glow-box, serving as a constant reminder that I will never amount to nothing. Cackling gnomes perch atop wiggling barstools, and I have to ask myself, "What the shit is so funny?" That TV over there is too magenta, and that one over there is too cyan. Hip, hip, hooray. I have an education.