The moment I discovered that class is completely unnecessary would have fallen sometime between a cigarette and shot of Jack Daniels this Easter weekend. It may have been the rum in my veins or the three foot cushion of smoke around my head, but I stumbled upon a point of such clarity I nearly shocked myself (how else to make incredible discoveries, but to stumble?). There I was, reeking of lung cancer and decked in my favourite pair of triple XL sweat pants, when it occurred to me that I loved every minute of my drunken laziness. Who needs class when you can have fun?
Stumbling into those who have managed to keep their drink in a glass and under seven percent, whose mascara hasn’t migrated to their cheeks and who have remembered to take a shower before going out always serves to highlight my inability to function like the rest of society. Too much of my life seems to be documented in those sort of unfortunate pictures I wouldn’t want posted on the internet, let alone shown to my mother, to pretend that I have any sense of elegance whatsoever. The best adventures have been the most compromising (what the hell is it in alcohol that makes your clothes fall off?), the messiest and the most hostile; I can’t help but be disappointed if I crawl home in a presentable state (not that my parents have come to expect as much of me anyway). Class is for the appropriate; absurdity is for those who know how to have fun.
I find that, by now, I have lost the capability of devoting my energy and attentions to those who choose to judge (regrettably enough, this could perhaps be attributed to my close friendship with the Captain), so I choose not to give a fuck. Besides, I have long since elected to believe that I am loved for my complete lack of class and rational; infamy is fine by me.
Stumbling into those who have managed to keep their drink in a glass and under seven percent, whose mascara hasn’t migrated to their cheeks and who have remembered to take a shower before going out always serves to highlight my inability to function like the rest of society. Too much of my life seems to be documented in those sort of unfortunate pictures I wouldn’t want posted on the internet, let alone shown to my mother, to pretend that I have any sense of elegance whatsoever. The best adventures have been the most compromising (what the hell is it in alcohol that makes your clothes fall off?), the messiest and the most hostile; I can’t help but be disappointed if I crawl home in a presentable state (not that my parents have come to expect as much of me anyway). Class is for the appropriate; absurdity is for those who know how to have fun.
I find that, by now, I have lost the capability of devoting my energy and attentions to those who choose to judge (regrettably enough, this could perhaps be attributed to my close friendship with the Captain), so I choose not to give a fuck. Besides, I have long since elected to believe that I am loved for my complete lack of class and rational; infamy is fine by me.
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