I hear you talking like you’re the shit. You’re a good faker, a fabulous phony. You say you’re 17 because we’re all 17. Yeah right. A bid for acceptance never looked so painful. Your clothes suggest that you’re trying to fit in with a country club crowd, but you’ll never make it past caddie. You say your name is Daniel, but it’s irrelevant, it will be forgotten soon enough. You ooze sleaze, from your disgusting windbreaker to your trousers with crisp, ironed pleats. Repulsive. I see everyone else around me being sucked in by your ‘appeal.’ Guffaws and chuckles flow freely as you begin to warm up your act. To me, you are a friend of a friend and nothing more.

You don’t let anyone other than you get a word in edgewise as words stream endlessly from you, an avalanche taking down everything in your path. You’re a blinding light; bad for the eyes, but alluring nonetheless. You put on false airs. Boy do you like to hear yourself talk. Your voice leaves a painful afterimage on the ears and makes stomachs crawl and curl up into themselves. Lying to everyone is the only way you can hide your weak, inner core. You try to be great for everyone else, try to parade around in a grown mans shoes with your little boy feet. Too bad the only person you can’t fool is yourself.

You just won’t shut up. The ear muffs of white noise cupping my ears try frantically to drown out your barrage of ‘humour,’ your assault of ‘superiority’ on my person. My mind screams, aching to tell you where to take your show, but my lips are still. I feel like I’m in the minority as everyone clamours to convert to your Daniel-ism. Jumping on the bandwagon never seemed to inflate egos or pad lies quite so well up ‘til now. I hear my companions laughing at your ‘jokes’ and responding in all the right ways in all the right places. I can feel so many of my peers doubled up and wheezing to catch their breath as if it were whipped away by Hurricane Daniel. I’m ashamed for them, ashamed that they can’t see past your façade. You’re standing in front of us and the rest of my compatriots act appropriately; like a rapt audience as you sing and dance and do your best to impress. You try so hard.

You try too hard.

Finally, I excitedly realize that you’ve gone. Good riddance. I’m in a state of not existing, vegetative to say the least, but everyone else can’t stop praising your ‘genius.’ Just when I think I’ve finally seen the last of you, Carla gets a phone call. You rear your ugly head once more, you’ve lived to die another day. She smokes like a fish while she soothes your doubts.

‘So-uh, how are you? Your friends, did they like me? ‘Cause, I don’t think they liked me, your one friend, the girl…,’ the phone’s scratchy voice self-consciously questions. I almost snort in derision, but hold myself back for Carla’s sake. I smile semi-secretly at how the overloud phone voice can’t match the practically prepubescent screech that drones on the other end of the line.

‘No, no, they loved you,’ Carla assures him animatedly, her thigh shifting against me almost as if she’s trying to squirm away from her own dishonesty like a slippery fish that just won’t cooperate.

‘I don’t know Carla, she wasn’t laughing. She was silent the whole time. She must have hated me. She was so silent. She didn’t laugh, Carla.’

‘Don’t worry, they were all laughing.’

‘What about your other friend, the guy, what’s-his-name? How is he, good? He was laughing, I liked him…’ Tuning out from the banter, I’m in a paralysis of shock. After mere moments of reassurance, the timid, doubtful wreck of a few seconds earlier is gone. You’ve slid into home, safe once more. Your voice has regained its flamboyance and overzealousness. The phone should have spontaneously combusted, now that you’ve got your oomph back.

‘He can’t stop talking about you.’

You’re so insecure and your phone call has given you away. You want to know what some strangers thought of you when the truth is that you shouldn’t care anyways. I hope you’ve at least managed to make yourself happy for one night.