Styling 'Rachel Styles.'
I have a way with people. Not strangers. People. I can't carry on a conversation with a stranger for shit without getting awkward or uncomfortable at the first sign of silence. But when it comes to groups, or just a few people who easily prove their worthiness of getting to know, I have a gift with winning hearts over. That's how it's always been: Audra's had the gift with strangers, and I've had the gift with people. The way I am is somewhat appealing, I suppose, whether it's my style or my attitude; there is something that people remember. Everyone knows that with me, they can pick and choose which they like more, because they all know I've got both.
I like making a lasting impression because in the long run, I don't care what anybody thinks. I'm full-throttle honesty in a package of brutality. If I want to do something, I'm going to do it, and if I don't, I won't. I'll be the first to tell you you're being stupid, or you've got food in your teeth, or your zipper is down, you dumbass. I'll be the first to punch your girlfriend in the face if she's being clingy and obnoxious, and I'll be the first to make out with her when your back is turned. I'll always be the one with a safety pin on the bottom of my pants, ready for any bowls that need emergency resinating. I'll always be the one with the knife in my pocket, ready to punch holes in your can of PBR over the sink when you want to shotgun it. I'll be the one to top your joking insults with ones more witty and sharp, and when I yell, it sounds good. I like partying with people, because people listen to my screams, even when they're the douchebags sitting in the corner pissed that I tagged their beirut table or stole their last beer.
And in all these respects, the 802 was the party group made for me, because all these kids party alike. Among the fireworks and the entire corner of the porch littered with empty beer cans, there was much to be entertained by. I could go from dancing on the table with Pixie, so coked out of her mind that she had little to no rhythm and knew only how to shake her ass violently, to the kitchen where I could be the one stabbing a hole in Jackie's beer and watching her pound it so quick that it dribbled down the sides of her cheeks. From there I could go into the bedroom and sit next to Ben Danger and take a few hits from the hookah, in which they'd mixed peach coals and marijuana unknowingly. There I could kiss Tessa's pierced lip until I felt like my heart would explode from enjoyment, and I'd move onto Alexis, who I'd waited many years and many drunken nights to experience. I could leave that room and grab my spray paint and tag whatever the hell I fancied, only to the inevitable satisfaction of everyone else that could see me in action. I could return to the porch where I could sit in my VIP spot in the corner of the roof and listen to people compliment my style. Come to think of it, it was all about style. The reason anybody ever stands out and is liked because of their memorable qualities, it's because they've got style, and these kids seem to think I've got it.
The word "style" has been thrown around lately like it's the word of kings; like having style is just as good as having millions of dollars that you can spend on anything and everything in the known universe. I'm a believer in this. If you don't have enough cash for a garage of sports cars, you don't have enough money. If you don't have enough presence to win the infinite love of every boy and girl around you, you must not have enough style. I've brought bitterness to the 802's hearts because I'm leaving and I'm taking my nickname with me. But don't fret, boys -- Styles will always be a member of the 802.