not realizing how numb i was until i... wasn't

things are good. weirdly so. i must shake the unease that always accompanies beatitude.
*
there is a bottle of dom perignon in my refrigerator, next to the grapes and the generic salsa and generic thousand island dressing and vegan cheese. it will be opened tomorrow. it is chilling now, waiting. i have never had dom perignon. he bought it the other night; the guy in front of him in line was "gay as a three dollar bill" and said something like "oh, special evening planned?" and then, saucily, "have fun." this delighted me when he related it. it was all he bought. "you bought dom perignon and missed the opportunity to throw in a bag of cheese curls or pork rinds?" i asked, aghast. seriously: isn't this a once-in-a-lifetime thing? it came in a very nice lined box with a pornographically written multilingual booklet.
today is stultifyingly grey. i am content and lazy. awesome discovery: dr. dog. listen to them. they are reminiscent of the pretty things + early bowie. "die die die" is an especially hot and fucked-up song. 'i don't want to die in your arms/i just want to die...' where were these guys when i was fourteen and ambiguously anguished?
went to the twilight exit last night. i had been there once before with j, at the bar. this time i sat at a table in the cold corner. the place has such a sleazy and foreboding air. the walls are blood-red, the lights lurid '70's multicolored globes. the bar area was filled: the stool-fellingly-drunk guy in the misfits jacket, the old man falling asleep, the obese woman with the distractingly small spandex shorts, the ancient gentleman in the tuxedo stumbling from patron to patron offering to perform magic tricks. eminem was blaring. the bathroom is bright pink with a polynesian mural. someone had written a lecture about proper grammar ('don't write Y for WHY. what the fuck is Y?') in black marker all over the door. i only had half of my drink. he had a rusty nail ("you got me into these" he said). it was someone's birthday; everyone at the bar did a shot. a shitfaced woman sitting alone defiantly lit a cigarette and smoked the entire thing before the bartender kicked her out.
every time i go anyplace i should write a description, no matter how mundane. thus: i am currently at the library... wet and dreary outside. a man with a red windbreaker and a miserable expression is huddled against the building, waiting for a bus, hugging himself. i am the only caucasian using a computer. a group of girls sits at the bus shelter across the street, all in hooded sweatshirts and baggy jeans, presumably fresh from the mall. the guy with the shaved head and goatee, paint splatters on his clothes, nice arms, staring at me when i look up. how creepy that i am looking up to acquire more fodder for his description. now i feel self-conscious. thus i shall stop writing now.