I meander through the neighborhood, searching for the house.
Once found, I happily jump the 5 steps to the front door and pass a silhouette smoking a cigg.
I must have thought that the people behind the door, within the house, were ones that made me happy to be around.
I must have thought that this crowd were friends of mine.
I cross the threshhold and smile to the room at large.
"Sammy!" "Saaaaaaaam!!" "You made it!" the shrieks say.
I hang my coat with one of the plastic hangers on the ground, hook it onto the makeshift PVC coat catcher.
I enter the skuzzy party.
To the left people stand excitedly discussing their successful protest of the day.
To the right people are huddled round a table, computers out, bumping music.
A blunt is circling the room like an hors d'oeuvre tray at a wedding.
Beer bottles clink softly here and there.
I make my way past them to the kitchen in hopes of a more promising social setting, I find a sink and counter full of dishes.
Laughing patrons sipping bottles of pale ale, yelling about the chicken they've marinated all afternoon.
They are just aquaintences, I do not really know them.
Scope the room for a more familiar face.
I find dylan smiling wide up at me, her features rosey, she must be intoxicated.
I pull her into a hug, spreading my features wide.
I love her, but I do not always like her.
Tonight we are surrounded by the politically enthusiastic.
They rant about hatred of the system
The senetor of New Jersey
Drug policies of our college
The corruption in the world.
I nod my head, an "Ooof, I feel ya." rolling off my lips every now and again.
I make an acceptable excuse and cross the room, away from the redundant conversation.
I am nervous.
I am tired.
I am sad.
The conversation takes a turn towards the sexual, the way it has been in the last few weeks.
Hopefully tonight I won't admit my virginity to another drunk, desperate, pushup bra'd individual.
I silently curse myself for last weekends drunk admittance of such secrets, as the same girl spews drunk comments about how "cute," "innocent," and "pure" I am.
I uncomfortably laugh.
I am sick of her antics.
I, for the 83rd time that evening shift at a 90 degree angle and step across the room.
Finding myself at the stairs, I climb the first 5.
The wall is covered in drawings from drunk nights, high afternoons, crossfaded luncheons.
I search for anything of worth as I distract myself from the stupidity of this night.
A night that turned out to be another reminder of how displaced I am.
I do not belong here, at least 5 people in the room have said it to me before, I know it.
I care too much,
I am too passionate,
Too devoted to my Art to spend my talent at a "nothing" school like ours.
But I am stuck.
I am not stuck.
I have options.
But those options are unreal.
I am a dreamer.
I have dreamed of my options, but now that I have them, I feel more loss.
I know I cannot have what I want and that makes me sad.
Sadder still these people treat me as a novelty, something like a trinket,
lovely for a mantle.
I am not an object, gimmick, character from a book.
I am passionate, artist, idealistic, genuine.
I am sensetive, caring, optimistic, raw.
If you can make me comfortable, I will bear my soul to you.
but I have not done that for some time.
These people are toxic for me and I know it.
But what choice do you have when your options read like a game of monopoly, it is all in the bills how you can succeed.
This is not my party.
These are not my people.
I grab my coat,
Smile, wave, laugh, turn 90 degrees,