Peroxide (Peterick)

ur just a rat meme and I can't help u

"You don't look very gay." The bouncer's expression is incised distinctly on his bronzed skin, unwilling to let us pass, but my companion has other ideas.

"You don't look very polite," Gerard retorts, brushing the man aside and stepping into the dark club before he can object.

Your friends are going to get you into trouble.

"I don't care," I whisper through the shadows, the blare of the music sheltering my words so that no one may hear them.

Electronic beats thud against the velvet walls of the club, mingling with the stench of sweat and alcohol from the sour (and possibly drugged) beverages of the drunk patrons, and glasses drained of their mature substance reflect the coruscating lasers of the strobe lights, which would be murderous to an epileptic person due to their disorderly vehemence.

At the end of the summer, though, I promised myself I would take note of people in addition to my surroundings, and though Dr. Saporta was biased towards that concept, it's a proactive thing anyway, so I dignify myself by tolerating its guidelines.

Most of the lesbians have congregated to a lounge in the corner to attend a tipsy game of spin the bottle, except instead of kissing when it whirls towards them, they pour large swigs of beer down their necks and begin to giggle passionately. I haven't met any of them, but I worry for their safety.

Two thirds of the gay men shimmy on the dance floor, some so intoxicated that they're imagining a partner beside them, while the other third is either stumbling around in a disoriented state, or they're sober enough to recognize that they're devoid of an acquaintance.

From the way my eyes circle the room with infatuation, it must seem like I'm interested in at least one person in this bar, but the only people in here that don't scare me are Pete and Gerard. These people don't understand that, however, and one of them almost invites me to dance until Pete's menacing glare tells him off, and the man backs away with a quite horrified tremor in his gait.

Pete preserves a guarded watch on me, glancing around to see if any homosexuals will approach me again and ask for a dance or...something else. I consider it unnecessary, as I'm short and unstable and ultimately out of place, but the consideration is appreciated with multiple smiles sent his way sporadically.

Almost instantaneously, Gerard is swept away by a short guy in a leather jacket, gripped by the hand in an act of jurisdiction, but from the facetious smile on my friend's face, no protest is discernible.

And with that event, Gerard has officially strayed from his plan of sticking with us. My palms don't sweat from betrayal, rather anxiousness from now being a party of two, even if Pete is the best person with whom to visit a club.

In a matter of minutes, we're situated at the bar by request of Pete Wentz as he orders two waters to remain modest and not out on the street, a knife in our backs from a drunken mistake, and the clear liquid is catered soon after.

Stuffiness blankets us in flashing clouds around our heads, congesting the space more so than it had been since the opening hours, and I can't help but wonder if the frosty climate of the exterior would be snugger.

But as I say, when it is hot, we wish for it to be cold. When it is cold, we wish for it to be hot. When it is just right, we find other things to worry about, imprisoned on our own heads, the torture chambers that have become familiar to us.

On the contrary, I don't give a damn anymore, because I've been living life through bullshit, falling for it over and over again, and that itself is painful enough, so I might as well treat myself to my favored weather.