Infatuation Is Barely A Choice

Infatuation is barely a choice. While one can simply ask thoughts to go away, some remain in every crevasse of the mind, like a red wine stain on white linen. On this night, my attention deficit disorder was shooketh to the coreth, at a dark grungy club with several rock bands. Head bangers, frizzy long hair, tattooed ribs, whiskey and testosterone taking over the oxygen, I saw a man with green hair in a champion hoodie, fresh beanie and big grandma glasses; a westside hipster.


Encompassing the room, I usually learn everyone’s story, but I was not interested, so I hung back in the red plastic booths, in the darkness of candlelight. While in active voyeur mode, a friend sits next to me pinging cocaine dealers in the area, he was fresh out and itching for more. Skipping the snowballs, I was fixated with this green head of hair being stalked from across the room. I leaned over for intel and said, “tell me what you know about that guy,” nodding in green’s direction. Blowing through contacts, he stopped what he was doing, looked into the windows of my soul and said, “he’s a recovering maniac.”


Infatuated.