I was not having fun.
Sure, the artwork on display was cool, though I didn’t understand half of what people said about the strokes used or whatever. The music was eclectic, and I liked some of it, but could do without electronica. And some of the spoken word was downright weird…I didn’t need to know that much information about the performer’s yearning for s*x—and the graphic descriptions—as told in such a public forum. Was that a thing?
Marco had insisted that I not embarrass him and wear something other than a T-shirt and old, frayed, washed out blue jeans—my attire of choice, usually—which meant I was now wearing black jeans and a purple short-sleeved shirt that I’d forgotten I owned, since my brother had dug into the back of my closet to find these items. Both articles of clothing wer
