sixty seconds

:gangnam

:gangnam

{CURRENTLY REWRITING DUE TO SUCK}

Being a generally civil person, there aren't many things I hate in this world. I stand by the only slightly wavering  belief that if Obamacare, that song Gangnam Style, and the entire population of sexual offenders were eliminated from existence, I would be living in a probably purple (or turquoise. Oh, yes. Turquoise.) land of perpetual joy lacking suffering, jealousy, and fear.

Of course, an ideal world would exist only without periods, midterms, cold showers, alarm clocks, and, again, that song Gangnam Style, but being absorbed in the idea of perfection only results in more periods henceforth bringing to the universe the presence of untempered hate directed towards whoever made up the laws of femininity, and then suddenly you have women striving towards world domination and mass production of estrogen-combatting products and men start wearing thongs and an imbalance of gender resulting in a completely asexualistic society.

However, along with the things I hate is the knowledge that I will do ultimately nothing to stop the forces that provide such things. I will not take birth control to halt my periods, nor will I start a petition against Obamacare, nor will I join a criminal defense agency against sex offenders, nor will I ever oppose the airplay of Gangnam style in a party that I will not be invited to.

But as I trek through the miles of concrete set ahead of me under the glimmering moonlight, painted white by the cast of the eery glow, I can hear the ultimate anthem of my insanity.

And with liquid confidence in my veins, I take off.

Now, a woman can run at approximately 3 miles an hour in heels, 2 miles an hour in heels after developing blisters, and 1 mile an hour in heels after developing blisters and a variety of sore-like injuries on the heels and ankles. I can only run a half mile an hour in my current state, so that's exactly what I do.

Towards the noise.

Lights dim, darkness sets in, and the spotlight focuses on the single source of shouting. I hear murmurs and whistles mingled with gasps and chuckles, but most of all, I hear it.

"COME ON, MISS. JOIN MY CAMPAIGN FOR THE PROMOTION OF KOREAN PRONOUNCIATION. I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ANY OF YOU BASTARDS PRONOUNCING 'GANGNAM' WRONG ANYMORE." It's startlingly loud. That's of the few things I notice, being that the noise in the city would generally cover the immensity of anybody’s voice. But not his.

A few people detach from the mob, mumbling in disdain, and I push through the crowd.

"For the simple price of like, your virginity, you can help me end human stupidity." More grunts and whispers. More people leave. I hear a loud, dark laugh resound through the clearing, and a mother takes the hand of her child and scurries away. 3 miles an hour. In heels. A woman of true talent.

"Who do you think you are?" Someone calls, and I stumble through more people, tripping over myself. I swear under my breath as someone backs up onto my foot.

"I think I'm Joe Satriani, but that may or may not have to do with the mental retardation I suffer from after being used as a football by my older brother as a small child." He laughs again, and I hear the strings of a guitar being picked at. In a specific melody. More people leave, until I can finally peer over a low shoulder. Someone's hair gets in my face, and I spit and cough, peering still over.

There's something about curiosity that makes you do stupid things. And there's something about stupidity that gets you noticed.

"Are you trying to eat my hair?" Says the woman with the foul-tasting hair in front of me. She's looking at me now, as the rest of the crowd is. I blink.