LAS -> LAX

The plane finally touched down in LAX. An hour of listening to these bragging morons. “Dude it was insane! Friday night we went to XS and didn’t sleep at all cuz my buddy Shamus drank too much and took some pills and we had to take him to the hospital and me and Kyle ended up doing bumps in the ER bathroom just to stay awake! It was fuckin crazy dude!” “Yeah dude then we met these two sluts and went back to the Mandalay Bay but they passed out so we just did their coke and took these 2 bottles of goose from their room hahaha!” “Oh and then the cops showed up and took us down to jail but I don’t remember cuz I just remember waking up in the morning and they were like you’re free to go so we went back to the Hard Rock and lost 600 bucks at the blackjack table! It was fuckin nuts dude!” “Yeah man got so fucked up I tried to climb the Sphinx and fell or something I think cuz I broke my arm but I dunno so I just kept drinking and my buddy had some Vics in his pocket so I popped those for the pain and I haven’t slept in 3 days man my ass hurts for some reason and I think I puked blood this morning! It was awesome!” This is my generation, I thought, as I nodded and laughed and used their lexicon to fit in as best I could “yeah dude that’s fuckin sick!” But inside I hated them. I hated Vegas. I hated bottle service. I hated politics. I hated leather lace ups. I hated money. I hated high heels. Even worse, how most women looked when walking in high heels. I hated pills. I hated alcohol. I hated cops. I hated crooks. I hated loosey goosey floppy socks that don’t hug your ankles almost too tight. I hated socks that were too tight. I hated everything about everything and everything’s opposite too.

The plane taxied at a full stop and at the final lurch, I felt nauseous again.

I looked around in a panic, no one saw me, I saw a bag between the seats in front of me. I reached over the seats and pulled the bag from the aisle seat and filled it with all the hatred and anxiety in one long barf. Everyone cheered. I stood up and took a few bows. I was part of the masses now and I hated me for it too. Like them, I hadn’t slept in several days. Whenever you leave one club and think its finally over you meet some dumb sluts who tease you with their pussies and their glossy lips and you just follow them to the next one and then the next one and the next one until finally it’s morning and you have to hit the bars just to stop the hangover from happening. But the pain and the damage is cumulative. Delay it, but eventually, you pay with interest. I felt like metastatic lymphoma. My small and big intestines tossed and turned in their beds until they didn’t even know who was who anymore. It was too hot and agitating in there to sleep. Even the appendix awoke from his deep slumber. How could he not? The whole house was on fire with fun and terror.

I’ll never understand people. We love the pain. We love to hurt and damage ourselves and each other and then sleep to recover. Rally. Whatever terminology you want to use for this whole insane roller coaster called fun and entertainment. Drugs and booze and fishnet stockings and teases and dealers and scammers and cunts and assholes and lost phones and stolen wallets. The prospect of coming on a pair of fine young tits. Ray Bans on the upper left hand corner of the night. Sexy cop outfits and Louboutin shoes.

“Just give us a second folks we’re still taxiing. Please remain in your seats we’ll be deboarding shortly.”

I couldn’t wait that long. I reached across some douchebag and grabbed another baggie from his seat and retched twice. The thing almost overflowed. The whole plane laughed and cheered and freaked. I raised my hand and snapped my fingers hoping someone would understand the gesture. Some genius woman did and quickly handed me her baggie too. I switched them out like a pro and continued exorcising the toxic demons. There. I finally felt ok with it all. “Are you ok?” I heard a voice. I looked up and saw the stewardess. I smiled. “Yeah. Can I get a scotch and soda please?” Then I spit in the bag. The whole plane roared and clapped. I was the biggest man in the world for right now. The embodiment of Vegas. The representative of party. The one who took 20 shots, 16 bong rips, vomited, then had a few pulls of Jack to recover his wits and went and went and went… where? THAT’S who our generation looks up to. Not the scientists in the labs. Not the die hard nerds in the libraries. Not the struggling unknown authors stuck in the depths of misery born of hard work and no results. We haven’t even heard from the philosophers in a while huh. Do you know of any since Spinoza? Who even knows Spinoza? No one on this plane. Or of the architects who build the oversized mansions they all want to own now now now. Or the engineers who make cell phones and penicillin. No. To these boys and girls, “genius” is a shot of vodka after a shot of barf followed by a backflip off the bar. The man who survives, the one who lands it, or at least doesn’t break a bone or lose consciousness and gets wheeled out like a loser by the ambulance, that’s the genius, that’s the winner. The one who tries and suffers in silence – Faaaail! That’s the loser. The viral video of the week. The one we laugh at, not with. The one who wasn’t trying to be funny. An idiot. And that in itself is victory. That’s something they aspire to as well. What’s the difference between at and with. There is none. Not to them. Not to my generation. But I feel alright now.

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