He sits back in the almost dilapidated brown leather chair, at the party we’re at, like it’s his own personal throne. He’s the type of man whose body language exudes, screams, growls «I’M the KING, BITCHEZZZZ!!».
With accustomed confidence, he proclaims ; «It’s in the discharging sparks from each and every one of us, when we’re being absolutely, ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND percent honest, without fucking CENSORING ourselves, that anything even in the hemisphere of being original happens!»
I hate it when he talks like that, like he’s the most clever person to ever sit in that brown leather chair, and although I slighty agree with his loud proclaim, I hold my silence, as he continues.
«That happy go lucky shit… PLEASE. Either you share something that’s like a complete gutspill of truth and originality, or stay completely silent. Stop polluting the air with old news. Everything has been said and done prior to this moment, so what’s the point of even having a blood-creating heart, if the words that creep through your lips, the way you shake your limbs to music, the way you feel someone up, is pure repetition or fucking copy-paste? BE. FRESH. Please.»
He leans forward, searching for signs of impact in all our faces. I feel offended by his monologue, but try to hide it behind a blank expression. Obviously waiting for some kind of reply or recognition, he raises his knee up and down in a manic pace.
But who dares to speak, move, do anything, for a couple of minutes after being told something like that.