The Diary of a Creep
Brendan Plouff
Issue date: 3/11/10 Section: The Writing on the Wall
Another Saturday night spent trying to dodge the incessant phone calls; I'm afraid if I answer the relentless rings of my Blackberry, my friends might pressure me into going out to some random, filthy, hole-in-the-wall bar or a some flashy, over-crowded, over-hyped night club or something; that like always, I'm not in the mood to do. I kind of stay inside a lot; I don't know if this seemingly-debilitating proclivity came about because I don't think I fit in, I don't want to fit in, or what; but whatever the problem is {that is to say if there even is a problem} it keeps me living the life of a recluse, a hermit, a shut-in or whatever other title you could choose to define the "creepy" guy who just wants to be left alone to his self-deprecating thoughts. A rose by any other name…. I try desperately to ignore my phone's perpetually peer-pressuring persistence because I don't want to show everyone, or anyone, for that matter, the guy that I really am: the shadowy lurker….yea lurker, I said it; I'm a master creep. My friend Mike says that by not going out "picking up bitches" and having a good time that I "cock-block" myself, so to speak….. but I jerk-off all the time - so I'm not really sure what he means.
My large and hallow skull weighs just a bit too much for my long, skinny neck to support; I can't help but exhibit the look of a threatening presence: hunched-over with my spine bending like some sort of pre-mature C. Montgomery Burns. Excellent. I went to my doctor, a while back, and asked him if there was anything he could do to help me with my palpably poor posture. Dr. Whitehead said, "Son, the only thing I can tell you is, try to not peer ominously."
"Doc, I can't help but glare dauntingly." I'm not sure what happened then, but the doctor quickly asserted himself and kicked me and my Sailor Moon backpack out of his office toot sweet; it must have been the insidious look I gave him {inadvertently, of course}. People always seem to get the wrong impression from the misleadingly-putrid expression on my pointy little face; when I'm happy: they think I'm plotting menacingly, when I'm sad: they think I'm plotting menacingly, when I'm confused: they think I'm plotting menacingly, when I'm plotting menacingly - they know I'm plotting menacingly. I don't mean to look like a creepy dirt-bag, but because of the way I'm treated I'm starting to act the part as well: "Hey kids can I borrow some beer?"
It might be my paranoia, but the craziest thing is that others actually look creepy to me; I mean every time I look at people who are peering at me suspiciously - I see them conspiring against me: pointing at me behind their hands and making alarming slash gestures across their necks with their index fingers - Yup, my family reunions are all the same. If I can't convince my own creepy family members that I'm not creepy, how am I supposed convince total strangers that I'm not totally strange? Now you see my problem. The phone won't stop ringing; I know I'm going to have to just answer it eventually. I can't answer it; I eventually answered it:
"I don't want to go to the club…. Yea I know that, but….yea you're probably right but…..yea I know the short skirts but…. But I don't have any money…. free VIP huh? You'll be by in twenty minutes!? I still got to get showered and dressed…..fine, I won't shower….yea all right I'll be ready." The conversation goes the same way every Saturday night; although sometimes I call back and get out of it somehow. This time I felt the attempt would have been futile and embarrassing. Not to say that the forthcoming venture to the club wasn't going to be futile and embarrassing to say the least.
You can't go to the club on a Saturday night without first "pre-gaming" so to speak, at someone's apartment {or some haphazard bar} to get your engine in gear for the arduous evening ahead. Usually, in my case - the case of the creep - I end up doing my "pre-gaming" at a friend-of-a-friend's apartment; thus causing me to stand there awkwardly in the corner, withdrawn, holding a beer that someone else bought; drinking silently and glaring around at the people I don't know.
Who's that creepy kid that Mike brought? is what I know the dozen or so giggling strangers in that living room are all thinking, as they see me lurking there; suspiciously sipping away. And Lucky for me, I still have all the awkward, drunken, lonely, sullen, shadowy-corner moments, like this, to look forward to at the club, that we'll be at until two in the goddamn morning. Yea I love going out; it's delightful.
Finally arriving at this infamous club that everyone has been drunkenly blubbering about for the last few hours - "Everyone's going to be there" - we climb achingly out of the overcrowded Jeep Wrangler, straightening our disheveled appearances. Already starting to feel slightly inebriated, I slowly walk, perhaps a little sloppily, up to that club's looming entrance. Of course what kind of creep would I be if I didn't get carded at the door? My friend told that same domineering, square-shaped, power-hungry bouncer to give me a VIP bracelet; I waited until that large man was good and ready to let me in. It seemed like the moment would never come, but I was finally inside of the bright-light flashing, loud music blaring, drunkenly disorder of a dancing debauchery. The tanned, well-toned, bikini-clad dancers were moving almost as seductively and sexually as the average short-skirted coed club patron. Shaking what their momma gave them; doing things daddy's little girl shouldn't - this Sodom and Gomorrah-of-a- disco-tech was overwhelming. The only way for me to not look creepy or threatening in this tense situation is to dance like everyone else; well that is of course, unless you've ever seen me dance - I don't dance like everyone else. The others I arrived with were already mingling with yet others that I don't know; yet more nervous tension. So I stand there suspiciously holding my beer, sipping, sipping, guzzling, chugging. I stand there holding my next beer, sipping, chugging, chugging. I'm holding my beer next there, dizzy-sipping, chugging. Dizzy. Spinning. Gninnips.
"Hey man, are you all right?" I think I heard that and the like, more than a few dozen times; maybe. Blurry recollections; faces, hair, "don't touch me creep", bottles, spilled liquid on my shirt, blurry, "where's my cell phone case", colors, text message an old girl friend; blurry, blurry, blurry. "We got to get him out of here. Look at him he's really fucked up."
In a spinning room, I wake up with paralyzing nausea. My disoriented skull feels like a roofing nail has been vehemently pounded into it, as I struggle to sit up on the strange, ripped, stained, back-ache maker-of-a-couch, at a friend of a friend's apartment; where I guess I stayed the night. I need water, I need air, I need to use the bathroom; I think I'm going to be sick. I can't ask anyone where it is, it's still only 5:17 in the morning and from what I can tell we just got home a couple hours ago; everyone is asleep. So I creep slowly, no pun intended, through the wobbling apartment's deafening silence, across the stuffy living room, into the porcelain palace; well almost. I reach the bathroom's threshold and I throw up all over the wall and white tile floor. I tell you what; French fries, Cap'n Crunch, bananas and baked ziti don't look as appetizing post-digestion.
After spackling the walls of that small, tacky, pink-flowered bathroom with my anonymous chunks of squash-like vomit {The Crusty Signature of a Creep}, I slipped out of that putridly-odiferous apartment early that Sunday morning, feeling a sense of relief after my intestinal-clearing was completed. Finally walking with my head held high, They thought I was a creep before wait until they see what I left for them in the bathroom. Yup, it'll be a long time before someone else dares to try to take me out for a good time again. Walking home victoriously, under the triumphant dawn's echoing sunlight, smoking some weed that I just "borrowed" from a friend-of-a-friend, wearing the same wrinkled clothes from the day before, I was on top of the world; the shadowy, withdrawn, lurking, hunched-over, menacingly-suspicious, sullen, ominously-glaring Creep has finally proven his point: Just leave me alone!
*Smoking a blunt as he walks alone down that summer street; he is one cool dude…
……………"What a Creep!"
My large and hallow skull weighs just a bit too much for my long, skinny neck to support; I can't help but exhibit the look of a threatening presence: hunched-over with my spine bending like some sort of pre-mature C. Montgomery Burns. Excellent. I went to my doctor, a while back, and asked him if there was anything he could do to help me with my palpably poor posture. Dr. Whitehead said, "Son, the only thing I can tell you is, try to not peer ominously."
"Doc, I can't help but glare dauntingly." I'm not sure what happened then, but the doctor quickly asserted himself and kicked me and my Sailor Moon backpack out of his office toot sweet; it must have been the insidious look I gave him {inadvertently, of course}. People always seem to get the wrong impression from the misleadingly-putrid expression on my pointy little face; when I'm happy: they think I'm plotting menacingly, when I'm sad: they think I'm plotting menacingly, when I'm confused: they think I'm plotting menacingly, when I'm plotting menacingly - they know I'm plotting menacingly. I don't mean to look like a creepy dirt-bag, but because of the way I'm treated I'm starting to act the part as well: "Hey kids can I borrow some beer?"
It might be my paranoia, but the craziest thing is that others actually look creepy to me; I mean every time I look at people who are peering at me suspiciously - I see them conspiring against me: pointing at me behind their hands and making alarming slash gestures across their necks with their index fingers - Yup, my family reunions are all the same. If I can't convince my own creepy family members that I'm not creepy, how am I supposed convince total strangers that I'm not totally strange? Now you see my problem. The phone won't stop ringing; I know I'm going to have to just answer it eventually. I can't answer it; I eventually answered it:
"I don't want to go to the club…. Yea I know that, but….yea you're probably right but…..yea I know the short skirts but…. But I don't have any money…. free VIP huh? You'll be by in twenty minutes!? I still got to get showered and dressed…..fine, I won't shower….yea all right I'll be ready." The conversation goes the same way every Saturday night; although sometimes I call back and get out of it somehow. This time I felt the attempt would have been futile and embarrassing. Not to say that the forthcoming venture to the club wasn't going to be futile and embarrassing to say the least.
You can't go to the club on a Saturday night without first "pre-gaming" so to speak, at someone's apartment {or some haphazard bar} to get your engine in gear for the arduous evening ahead. Usually, in my case - the case of the creep - I end up doing my "pre-gaming" at a friend-of-a-friend's apartment; thus causing me to stand there awkwardly in the corner, withdrawn, holding a beer that someone else bought; drinking silently and glaring around at the people I don't know.
Who's that creepy kid that Mike brought? is what I know the dozen or so giggling strangers in that living room are all thinking, as they see me lurking there; suspiciously sipping away. And Lucky for me, I still have all the awkward, drunken, lonely, sullen, shadowy-corner moments, like this, to look forward to at the club, that we'll be at until two in the goddamn morning. Yea I love going out; it's delightful.
Finally arriving at this infamous club that everyone has been drunkenly blubbering about for the last few hours - "Everyone's going to be there" - we climb achingly out of the overcrowded Jeep Wrangler, straightening our disheveled appearances. Already starting to feel slightly inebriated, I slowly walk, perhaps a little sloppily, up to that club's looming entrance. Of course what kind of creep would I be if I didn't get carded at the door? My friend told that same domineering, square-shaped, power-hungry bouncer to give me a VIP bracelet; I waited until that large man was good and ready to let me in. It seemed like the moment would never come, but I was finally inside of the bright-light flashing, loud music blaring, drunkenly disorder of a dancing debauchery. The tanned, well-toned, bikini-clad dancers were moving almost as seductively and sexually as the average short-skirted coed club patron. Shaking what their momma gave them; doing things daddy's little girl shouldn't - this Sodom and Gomorrah-of-a- disco-tech was overwhelming. The only way for me to not look creepy or threatening in this tense situation is to dance like everyone else; well that is of course, unless you've ever seen me dance - I don't dance like everyone else. The others I arrived with were already mingling with yet others that I don't know; yet more nervous tension. So I stand there suspiciously holding my beer, sipping, sipping, guzzling, chugging. I stand there holding my next beer, sipping, chugging, chugging. I'm holding my beer next there, dizzy-sipping, chugging. Dizzy. Spinning. Gninnips.
"Hey man, are you all right?" I think I heard that and the like, more than a few dozen times; maybe. Blurry recollections; faces, hair, "don't touch me creep", bottles, spilled liquid on my shirt, blurry, "where's my cell phone case", colors, text message an old girl friend; blurry, blurry, blurry. "We got to get him out of here. Look at him he's really fucked up."
In a spinning room, I wake up with paralyzing nausea. My disoriented skull feels like a roofing nail has been vehemently pounded into it, as I struggle to sit up on the strange, ripped, stained, back-ache maker-of-a-couch, at a friend of a friend's apartment; where I guess I stayed the night. I need water, I need air, I need to use the bathroom; I think I'm going to be sick. I can't ask anyone where it is, it's still only 5:17 in the morning and from what I can tell we just got home a couple hours ago; everyone is asleep. So I creep slowly, no pun intended, through the wobbling apartment's deafening silence, across the stuffy living room, into the porcelain palace; well almost. I reach the bathroom's threshold and I throw up all over the wall and white tile floor. I tell you what; French fries, Cap'n Crunch, bananas and baked ziti don't look as appetizing post-digestion.
After spackling the walls of that small, tacky, pink-flowered bathroom with my anonymous chunks of squash-like vomit {The Crusty Signature of a Creep}, I slipped out of that putridly-odiferous apartment early that Sunday morning, feeling a sense of relief after my intestinal-clearing was completed. Finally walking with my head held high, They thought I was a creep before wait until they see what I left for them in the bathroom. Yup, it'll be a long time before someone else dares to try to take me out for a good time again. Walking home victoriously, under the triumphant dawn's echoing sunlight, smoking some weed that I just "borrowed" from a friend-of-a-friend, wearing the same wrinkled clothes from the day before, I was on top of the world; the shadowy, withdrawn, lurking, hunched-over, menacingly-suspicious, sullen, ominously-glaring Creep has finally proven his point: Just leave me alone!
*Smoking a blunt as he walks alone down that summer street; he is one cool dude…
……………"What a Creep!"
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