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Uneasy Quiet

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...and i don't know if i'll ever be back again. [Dec. 11th, 2009|11:56 am]
Uneasy Quiet



I suffer from a chronic inability to stay ahead of the coolness curve. I follow DJs on Facebook, hoping to find out about the coolest parties before everyone else does, only to realize that I'd rather be home watching Law & Order than be the oldest woman in a bar full of skinny hipsters.

Most of the time, anyway.

Every once in a while, I'll feel the need to scratch that itch to get out of the house and pay cover and too much for drinks. Sometime around March of 2009, when my best friend and I were living together, we decided that our living room was no place to meet men. We made a pledge to go out and seek nightlife like normal women of our age and (relative) good looks. We shut off The West Wing, we put down our knitting needles, we put on some makeup, and we got the fuck out of the house.

In my attempts to know about everything cool and good in town, I'd received a message about a club happening on the roof of a building in our very own little downtown area. The cover was reasonable, particularly with the discount that came with the message (it may be uncool, but I’m still a girl and last I checked, girls still love sales). We decided to go.

It was raining but not cold, and there was something oddly magic about being in a posh bar, sitting around a fire on wooden Adirondack chairs, smoking cigarettes and feeling raindrops on my face and head.

We spent the evening being underwhelmed by a British fellow and his douchey friend. I caught my girl hiding from douchey friend, and then I lost British fellow. I was ready to call off the hooking up portion of the evening until a boy sat down next to me. He had beautiful eyes and sexy piercings and a sweet way about him. He was about 5 years my junior. I had about 5 whiskeys in me. We were making out within about 45 seconds of "Hi, what's your name?"

I brought him home with me while my friend went elsewhere. Until about 2 pm the next day we listened to the rain from my bed in a haze of smoke while my iTunes played on indefinitely. During a period of sleepiness, we lay close and kept warm. This song came on and he whispered "Is this the Decemberists?" into my neck. "Yes," I answered. "This is the first thing I've recognized since the music started," he whispered, sleepier this time.

In a minefield of pain and uncertainty, that night brought me more comfort than I thought possible. Even the jaunty ridiculousness of this track seemed to fit, and I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

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