The Party

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She just doesn’t notice me. Or if she does, she doesn’t let on. I’m coping. I scratch at my pocket for an escape. Sooner or later I’ll have to do something about her because I just can’t keep doing this. Or at least I shouldn’t. I shrug as I pull out my phone in a smooth, well-rehearsed motion.

“Either way, it’ll make good art,” I muse to myself cynically as the thing bathes my face in its protective light. This was of course assuming I’d be able to find the time, and finish any given piece without flinging myself at another midway through, a trail of abandoned children in my wake. I’m sorry my lovelies.

“Jen… Jeeeeeeennnnn” A hand waves in front of my phone. I jump. Fuck, how long has she been there? She looks sad, I should cheer her up somehow. You? In wwhat fucking world? Go back to your canvas where you belong. SNAP OUT OF IT. RESPOND NOW.

“Ally, hey!” Too eager. Now she’ll think you’re obsessed with her, great. I should recede into this corner and make friends with the bugs. (A group of ants is ravenously tackling an abandoned potato chip in relative darkness) Bugs don’t have society, only yummy chip.

“What’re you doing over here?” She asks, clearly hurt that you’re not enjoying the party. Whatever you do, don’t say ‘your mom’. She looks pretty drunk though, she might think it’s funny?

// TODO: internal back and forth- interesting but so fucking cluttered. is it right for this story?