The Shuffle Conversation- Be Your Own Pet- Bicycle Bicycle, You Are My Bicycle

I had cold feet, both literally and figuratively. Figuratively, because I was about to walk up and talk to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and literally because while I was walking towards her, I stepped in a puddle. I've always had a thing for girls in bands. They have this seething confidence that I could only hope to have. Like its hard enough to get in front of people, it must be really hard to be a good looking girl and do it. It takes amazing guts. It makes what would be a somewhat okay looking girl into some sort of goddess that I lust over. I would lop off my own ear like Van Gough if it meant I got one night with Joan Jett. Not even Joan Jett 1985, Joan Jett right now.

I quickly pulled my canvas low top out of the puddle and ducked behind a nearby bush, hoping she didn't see me. I spread apart bits of the foliage and stared at her from what I hoped was a safe distance. She had on purple tights and a white v-neck t-shirt stained with her own blood. Some of that blood stained her bleach blond hair as well, making her look like a pixie Ric Flair, circa 1983 Starrcade. I knew it was her blood, because while she was onstage, she punched herself in the face and appeared to break her own already bloodied nose (I'm not sure how it was already bloody, I arrived a little late.) Punk rock lead singers tend to do shit like that, and I have no idea why. In this day and age any person with any real sense comes to these shows to listen to the music, not to rebel against the British Proletariat or the cess pool that is 1978 New York City by destroying themselves and their audience, like how punk music was first established. Now, most people who act like Johnny Rotten or Richard Hell, kind of just look like posers. But for her, I dunno, she just seemed to overcome that, like she knew she was being a tool by punching herself in the face. Like "look at me, I'm being a stereotype!" Because if anything punk music shouldn't be about stereotypes, but about making fun of them.

I pulled my shoulder length hair back and smoothed it out a little bit. I tried to swoop it to one side, which I hoped made me look a little less like a doofus, hard rocker, but I think, in reality, looked like when I was in junior high and the guidance counselor made me comb my hair before picture day. I tugged out some of the wrinkles in my black t-shirt, which was also bloodstained, only with someone else's blood. I unfortunately got too close to the mosh pit, and got some investment banker's plasma splashed across my chest. I'm not sure what caused the blood to spray as far as it did, but I was sure he was some white collar scum bag because those were the only types who went into mosh pits in 2009. The type that have to rebel against what they've become and want to show that, see they still know how to throw down, they aren't at all adult sell-outs now. They still know how to party. They were the only people in the mosh pit. That and drunk guys with too much aggression. I knew she was different than most because she made fun of the guys in the mosh pit, while she was onstage punching herself in the face.

I stood up and cleared my throat and checked my breath. I thought it smelled fine, but it probably smelled like cigarettes and Guinness. I wasn't too worried, though, because well, I think that's a smell a girl in a punk band would be used to, and maybe gravitate towards. I walked up to her as she leaned against the wall. She finished her cigarette just as I walked up to her.

"Hi," I said, somewhat unconvincingly. She looked at me and cocked her eyebrow slightly.

"You got a smoke I can bum?" she asked.

"Didn't you just finish one?"

"Who are you, C. Everett Koop? I can smoke as many cigarettes as I want."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Camels. I handed her the pack and she pulled out two, she lit them both in her mouth and then handed one of them to me. Then she pulled back the waist band of her tights and stuck my pack against her skin and let the spandex snap them against her body, almost like a fanny pack without the pack.

"Excuse me, I think those are mine."

"Nope, I think you're wrong. Look can I help you with something?" she said. She let her lip curl up like Billy Idol and I giggled.

"Look you don't have to do the act anymore. I get it."

"What act?"

"You know, punk rock mistress. I get it, it sways the rubes, but I get it. You can just be a normal person now. I'm cool"

"Fuck being normal." Then she spit in my face. It hit me on the forehead and then slowly moved down my nose. I crossed my eyes following it to the dirt below. Then she put her cigarette out on my arm. I screamed in pain and ran away as she laughed at me, then she lit another cigarette from the pack she just stole from me, with my lighter. Fuck punk rock chicks.