Monday, June 15, 2009

Stories from the Bar

About three years ago my friend Courtney and I spent entirely too much time at Park Bar on 15th Street between Park and 5th Avenue. This one time some chick I didn't know ruined my night with her bad adolescent poetry. She had a pink and white marbled notebook, the kind you beg your mom to get you when you're doing your school shopping in third grade but she refuses because it's $.49 more than the regular black and white marble notebook. Anyway, this chick wasn't eight years old, she was closer to twenty-four or twenty-five, so the fact that she was dragging this juvenile fake-ass moleskine around was distressing to say the least.

As Marble Notebook Girl approached me Courtney sort of giggled and slipped away. Bitch knew what was coming! Courtney was a heroin waif sort of model, it wasn't hard for her to slip away. I remember I was drinking a martini with olives and while I tried to be nice, this girl started reading me her poems, which went something like this:

A lone girl
in the corner
so alone
she draws the blade
the RAZOR blade.
RELEASE. she cries.
but she cannot feel.

Marble Notebook Girl's poem may have been a little better than that. I don't remember. I was saying stuff like "wow" while throwing back martinis and waiting for my horrible friend Courtney to somehow rescue me. What else was I supposed to do? You can't say to a cutter that their poetry sucks. You don't want to be responsible for their next battle with a bic razor.



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