Monday night, I slept for twelve hours. Rather, I slept from ten at night to about five in the morning and then from seven to two in the afternoon Tuesday. This was after several days of almost no sleep. And then I slept for just four hours Wednesday morning. This is unusually little sleep even for me. And what have I been doing instead of sleeping?
Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Roma-romamah! Ga-ga ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance!
Yes. I lay in bed, staring into the dark and sing to myself, 'I want your horror, I want your design. 'Cause you're a criminal as long as you're mine.' I realize I am the second-to-last gay man to fall in line, and I think I am being punished for it. I've been stricken with Lady Gaga. I've been mauled by the Fame Monster. My fingers unconsciously curling into the Claw. I wake up in the morning to find my hair has tied itself into a bow. Diamonds cascade around me spontaneously and suspend in midair.
(Also really good is Dangerous Muse's remix.)
Though I was watching that crazy-hot vampire 'Teeth' video weeks ago, the affliction really began this past Friday, when I went out with some people who were meeting with Queen Margaret University students visiting for the night. At the first bar, FHQ, I found myself singing along and moving in my seat to 'Bad Romance' while I downed a rum and coke (the manliest drink I had all night; it was followed by a Woo Woo). Hours later, I was in the middle of a crowd, dancing badly to 'Bad Romance'. And the song has stayed in my head ever since.
I listened to it (and 'Womanizer' and 'Maneater' and 'Crazy in Love') as I braved the fluffy snow (a 'blizzard' to the Scots and laughable to me) today to get to the saddest Chinese supermarket I have ever seen. I danced in place as I soaked rice noodles in water and watched my cheap pan pop out of shape as the soy sauce sizzled.
My iPod is going at it as I rush through the kitchen door, down the stairs, and out the building's back door to the Adam Smith building for my classes. I am mouthing it to myself as I wait for my e-tickets to Nice to finish printing in the library (and miss my overloud printer-scanner at home). I am embarrassingly admitting to it to my flatmates as we eat dinner around the table (and me with my scrambled egg sandwich dinner on a lazy Sunday). I am stepping to the beat as I walk through the chilly streets of the West End to my friends' place to make fajitas. I am imagining everyone suddenly breaking into choreographed dancing on the subway as I near the Buchanan Street stop.
The other day, as I walked to 'Walk walk fashion baby,' I watched this car make a turn and start up Great George's, the short road from the stores up the hill to my flat. I briefly thought, 'That car is really close to the right,' before I caught myself, 'No, they drive on the other side here.' And then a second car started coming down, and the first shifted left back into its own lane. I realized that I had adjusted to the roads here without realizing and even actually tried to correct myself.
Increasingly, I do not know where I am. I do not feel like returning to school. Not in that I want to stay in Glasgow forever, but rather, I am questioning this path I had made out for myself which has since been thrown off. I was trying to adjust the path to only detour and then go back to the previously decided destination, but now I am thinking about how I don't need to. I've never been an ends person; I've always done things because I wanted to do them not because they'll lead me to somewhere else. And I am not sure I want to be getting a double degree in sociology and social work anymore; I do not know if I want a university degree anymore.
I do not know where my life really is now, and I blame Lady Gaga. It's easier that way. See, she made me stay up to 2 AM writing about 'Bad Romance'.
I want your love and I want your revenge. You and me could write a bad romance.
No comments:
Post a Comment