The party is kind of lame. I know why and can’t say I expected different. I showed up for appearances and stayed for the show. Though wearing my tits-on-a-platter garners less notice each year, it’s still the best method of avoiding eye contact with strangers I’ve found yet.

Doing the rounds, I find myself sitting outside smoking at the side entrance. The wristband theater alone makes it a great seat. The award for Most Patience on South Main goes to man on the door next to me. The way he carries himself is a testament to not giving a fuck about it.

Everyone cycles past, as they’re aught to do. I stay still enjoying the soft glow of my shields, perpetually warding off the unfamiliar. Some pretty faces stop. Then they go. I just sit and think of Michelangelo.

A clown stopped by. He and his tall friend made quite the entertaining pair. Impressed I decided to stare. I saw under the mask a dark indifference tinged with whimsy. The best attention I get is often unsolicited.

Slouching home with no burden left to bear. Pawing my emotions like spiderwebs in a tomb. He takes joy in my lack of composure. Enlarged heads all around. I know what I want. I’m coming to peace with not having it. But I won’t hide the desire in my face.