June 4th, 2005

(no subject)

While lately nothing has inspired me enough to devote any actual writing to it, I have, however, experienced some particularly bizarre events recently. So I've decided that I'll be telling you stories about these abonrmal occurences until I have things to actually say again. I don't like to consider these pieces "writing," but I figure everyone enjoys a good story. So here is round one.

People do crazy things when alcohol is involved, and other times, people are just fucking crazy in general. When the crazy people get alcohol, the only thing you can do is pray that no irreversible damage is caused. Apparently, last night, we didn't pray hard enough, because disaster struck an innocent party in Mission Hill. It was all fun and games until there was nowhere to sit. Why was there nowhere to sit? Because somebody threw the couch off the roof.

The party I attended last night with my sister and her friends had a stairwell that lead up to the roof, which has the most gorgeous view of the cityscape. You could see the lights of every skyscraper perfectly, the helecopters flying overhead, and everything in between the house in the hill and the center of civilization. I was awestruck the entire night by how people landed apartments with such incredible views. Their view of the city was pretty impressive, but I'm mainly referring to the window across the alleyway that showed a room lit by a red bulb. In that window, everyone at the party had the perfect view of a drunken couple going at it like passion-struck animals. And believe me, everyone at the party had the perfect view, and everyone at the party utilized that view, screaming commentary from the rooftop and being innappropriate while mixing their disgust with their alcohol. I don't think I'd ever seen anything like it; people so carelessly going at it with a party of fifty yelling obscenities and blatantly invading their privacy. It was like a car accident I couldn't take my eyes off of, wanting to know everything that had happened to lead up to this point, and why the hell they didn't care.

All was well and good, I'd spraypainted my tag in the corner of the roof, and I was sipping my drink when I heard something happening behing me. There were two couches, and apparently one had already been thrown off the roof while I was downstairs not paying attention. But this time, the sound it made when it hit its landing was different; the kind of sound something makes when it hits something else. Sure enough, the launcher of the two couches had hit his target this time: the apartment owner's two-day-old BMW below.