text: Last night I went to a party in Depot Town with Steve. The whole event was promoted by the tenants as a house show for local bands, although equally devoted to everyone's thirst for cheap beer and vigorous ego stroking. I changed my outfit about seven times before deciding on a pale pink dress and black cardigan. It was clear mere minutes after arriving that my little pink number didn't stand a chance. I was simply not punk enough to be here. Not even my tactfully applied black eyeshadow could fool this crowd into thinking I had any shred of underground grit to me. The sentiment of disconnect was only exaggerated by several forehead tattoos, ironic leather booty shorts, and 40-something skinheads with gray chest hair popping out of Black Flag v-necks. But for the sake of this recount, let me set aside my own ego and admit that I was probably just invisible. And so I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I threw back three beers, fidgeted fervently and embraced my anonymity. The first person I spoke to aside from Steve was this guy named Kristov. I had met Kristov a few weeks earlier at a bar called Sidetracks. I remembered only his name and our brief acknowledgement of each others' self-deprecating humor. Kristov wears a grey wool trench coat and gaudy septum ring. Kristov has pale skin and black irises. Kristov likes Joy Division and writes slam poetry. He gave me this breathy confession that he'd recently subscribed to a life of sobriety, and that parties like this were becoming a burden. I nodded my head and smiled, said nothing. I guess it just seemed the kind of topic that ought to be sustained by the initiator. But for the sake of this recount, let me say that over my dead body was I about to politely endure any straightedge superiority propaganda. But Kristov ultimately concluded that I was most definitely interested as to why he now so nobly abstains from Pabst Blue Ribbon. Or maybe he just if he felt like talking about it. "I get angry. I get really fucking angry when I drink. I get angry because I'm sad, I'm so sad, all of the time. But the last time I got drunk I threw a metal folding chair at someone's head. And then I punched him. I punched him until I watched two teeth pop out of his jaw. I didn't even know his name. I can't remember if he even did anything to upset me. When I woke up the next morning, I looked down at my knuckles and cried. I cried for hours. I felt like dying. I felt like dying for weeks." He had broken eye contact with me halfway through his monologue but my eyes were locked on his face. My heart was pounding like an addict with an itch. These kinds of interactions with people had always been my raison d'etre. I wanted so badly to relate to this person. I wanted so badly to share with him the last time that I felt like dying, and that I thought his exposition was gorgeous in the same way I fall in love with stories of passionate criminals, and that I felt this great, misplaced privilege to be the one who was listening to him in that moment. And so began the manic panic for an encapsulating reply. But I did as I always do when subjected to totally normal social functions. I miraculously rematerialized into a fucking stone. I offered this person a sentiment so vapid I swear to god it felt like cheap plastic sliding past my teeth. "You made a mistake and then you made a change, based on how you felt about your mistake. That's really good.". I could feel us both wince at my reply. His discomfort was almost audible. My fingers pinched the base of my wrist. My teeth bit the inside of my cheek as another opportunity for me to authentically interact with another human being passed, just as quickly as it came. We exchanged "Yeah"'s and returned to our posts. Mine being at Steve's side, his in the kitchen.