At least I had shrimp cocktails

"It's one of those Gatsby parties", she told me with an air of delight that would be cute if she wasn't a little bit too old (as old people tend to be ridiculous when trying to be cute).

"Yeah. Such a pretty house.", I agreed.

And the house was indeed pretty. Very high ceiling for an apartment, a set of cool stairs that would go to the best bathroom and bedroom if the duplex. The apartment belonged to a man of the arts, a painter or some other source of pretentious shit like this - I barely knew who he was, wouldn't even have heard of this man if his name wasn't published on some over hyped, overrated magazine these kids like these days.

So, this article that published his name didn't publish his picture, so I had no fucking idea how this guy looked like. I only knew he was throwing an open-house party and his apartment was cool. Anyway, high ceiling, stairs. the living room was huge, separated in two ambiances by a wall with a humongous fish tank in the middle. The light was good and a dilettante photographer took pictures of everything.

That's why I hate dilettante photographers - living in their misery, they never hang around pretty places on the inside, living forever of the dirty houses that they and their friends live at, the crummy apartments where they share afternoons and the outside world - because it's free. Yeah yeah, damn poor aspiring photographs - always on the outside - we are truly tired of your photos of the city streets and of your macros of every-fucking-thing. Get a real job or starve to death already.

Anyway, the photographer took pictures and I probably wouldn't look good in the blue fishing-tank light, but I sticked around anyway. That was when the old girl made the useless reference that started this report.

See, she wasn't really old, she was just hype. Heavy make-up, sparkling clothes - apparently, all colors are the new black. I just can't understand. Maybe I've been in the house too long, maybe the writers are just tacky - we truly don't know anything about fashion, do we? But fuck this, as a human being, I have the right to my opinion, and all these colors fucking hurt my eyes.

The make-up made her face plastered like cement, and she had that dull eyes of people on coke. I am a little bit drunk too, must say. Free booze, an open house. free food. Free booze. Booze. Why the fuck wouldn't i be drunk? Anyhow, I cringed in the need for a cigarette. Party crasher as I was, I didn't bring any with me. I made a comment to the ridiculous girl:

"I really could use a cig right now, ya know?", while I looked at the sides to see if any smoking was rising from the sofas or the corners of the kitchen.

But then, as I looked at her side, she was handing me a cigarette that she had produced out of thin air. She took the first smoke, in a half-sexy smile, that would have been sexy if she wasn't a little bit bucktoothed. She proceeded talking and talking about crap I didn't care about, and I didn't answer, just nodded, hypnotized by her ugly teeth and all that booze coming up to my brain.

She looked less ridiculous as I kept drinking, so, why the fuck not? I drank more. up to one point, I didn't even nod anymore. And, apparently, not nodding an being in half-comatose state makes you a good listener, what makes the women talk even more. The more she talked, the more I drank and vice-versa, so it was a never ending roller coaster.

Up to one moment in the night - I can't clearly remember when - bucktoothed girl was gone, talking to some wannabe beatnik tall skinny guy. Gosh, he is so skinny he is completely vertical. There is nothing horizontal on this guy, like a skyscraper.

And the dilettante photographer was in the background, evidently too gay to function, taking pictures of the table with food, beer cans, and cigarette fags on coffee cups. Damn poor starved motherfucker, taking more uninteresting pictures of macros of food, probably because he can't really eat.

Anyway, I hadn't seen the host yet. i came to this guy house, drank his beer, ate his food and would probably steal something to take back as a memento (that would probably end up smashed against a trashcan in a corner or other) and still haven't seen the guy's face. I remember someone saying he was German, and that if you talked to a hole on the wall next to the sofa, the sound would come to his ears on his study room.

Bullshit. if that indeed happened, the German bullshitter would already be death. This alleged hole was one of his artistic creations. The whole apartment was. It was pretty, i couldn't deny, but he ruined this with the excess of people and artsy-art crap.

But who am i to say? I am eating shrimp like there is no tomorrow, in my Nike sneakers and gray sweater, for free. Yet, I want to see the German's face, maybe smash a beer bottle on his head and call him bullshitting-bullshitter for all this crap he calls art - I am feeling a little violent because of the beer.

But instead, nature calls. I go to the upstairs bathroom because the downstairs one had become a conference room where two alternative girls are kissing for an uninterested audience too high on marijuana at a narguilé, sitting as Indians - all this with the fucking closed doors. I don't understand why... they don't want us to see them, disturb them? Shame, since we can all see through the barely tinted windows they are calling doors.

So, I go upstairs. the bathroom is indeed a paradise. I kick a guy asleep to the outside, I sit by the toilet - no fucking way I could get the piss into the bowl because of how drunk I am - since I am too cool of a guy to eat and drink for free and still piss all over the German bullshitter's bathroom. It is pretty sweet up here. I relax on the toilet, letting the yellow warm lights sink in... Then, startled by laughter, I end up jumping from my throne and pissing the rug anyway.

I open the shower curtains and there is a fag and a dyke lying against each other, laughing of the scare they gave me. f-u-c-k-i-n-g assholes. I grab the cigarette on one of their hands - I can't really tell one from the other, since they both look like boys that look like girls, wasup with these haircuts? - and take a long drag. And then out it out on one of their heads full of hairs - once again can't tell one from the other, since they both screamed like boys that sound like girls. The injured one opened the shower, making the bathtub a pool of cigarette fags and ashes.

The poor white rug is now a filthy ashtray. Fucking nasty. the other thing goes down the stairs, screaming that there is a lunatic on the bathroom, a pyromaniac, these sort of shit. I am still laughing, these was really good. A troglodyte comes up to take me downstairs and throw me out on the street.

As we pass the poolside, people look at me weird. The troglodyte had the decency to put me down on the floor,Ii grab another cocktail from a plastic cup on someone's hand and drink it, replace it with a stolen beer bottle - if I am going, then man, gotta enjoy those last minutes - and the guy dislikes it.

He pushes me around, reclaiming his beer back.

*CRASH*

Bottle to the head.

*SPLASH*

Body in the pool. Open head in the pool.

The water becomes red. Such a shame the German bullshitter isn't down here to see it. I hope he is observing from upstairs because, holy mother of god, isn't this looking fucking artsy?

I hope the asshole doesn't steal my idea. Fucking Gatsby party.