Marching season is out, but the competition is only heating up.
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Section leader applications for the next marching band season at Halston University are officially open, and percussionist Bay Rodriguez wants the role.
Bay's only competition is Ca...
verb. referring to the bass drum in drum kits, played by a foot pedal.
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I LIKE TO FLIRT, AND be flirted with.
When I work at the Foxhole, it's more than just a monetary tactic to earn more tips. It's more than a self-esteem booster for a few minutes. It's a psychological entry point into the heads of other people, often men, but sometimes women, too. Some people will warm up to you if you flatter them and others will wave compliments off, either hinting at a confidence problem or a learned false modesty.
Some people are intentionally crass for shock value, trying to put a blush on my cheeks, and others are so tentative with their flirting that I immediately understand a rejection would crush them. I play verbal tennis with the ones who come out swinging and I'm gentle with the ones who have been pushed toward the hot bartender by their group of friends, who usually hypocritically stand further away and spectate like sheep.
Flirting is another mental exercise.
Tonight, a Friday, is thrumming with self-destructive energy. We have live music on alternate Fridays. Tonight's band is a local four-person act, currently belting out an 80's power ballad. The strobe lights fixed in the corners of the ceilings swivel randomly on their axes, painting the dance floor in splashes of red, green and blue. Even from here, the hardwood floor looks sticky.
Like a wet finger running down my spine, I can feel the number of unfinished essays and looming tests that people have abandoned to party. I myself have brought my homework to my workplace, hoping foolishly to be able to chip away at my vector subspaces assignment in my breaks.
(I won't get it done.)
In my many months of working at the Foxhole, I've overhead many conversations. People don't seem to realize the person making their drinks has ears; separated by the counter, they feel safe to continue their discussions. I've earned a reputation for being the flirty bartender, and simultaneously, the uptight bitch who won't call the numbers she's been given.
Another thing I don't like about people: they can't divorce the mind from the body.
People don't realize that my actions say nothing about my emotional landscape. In general, action does not imply emotion. Sex does not imply emotion. Late night conversations do not imply emotion. Leaning on someone as an therapeutic crutch does not imply emotion. Even saying 'I like you' does not imply emotion. Divorce the mind from the body. That's what I want to tell the dozens of people whom I've witnessed holding out for the blessed day when their emotions will finally be reciprocated, citing actions as evidence. That day is not coming.
