He hated "facebooking" and "twittering," activities that act as a precursor to online bickering, more evidence of him trying to fit in, he stood steadfast on the sidelines of social scenes, always the one that would question the nature of teams, a habit he developed in his post teens, reclusive nature, wallflower self-esteem, couple that with a mind that would always question things, and you begin to slightly understand this fellow, a guy who would be described by most as a mellow, on the surface that is, his mental wages war like Othello, but back to the tale at hand, he's in the same spot, same groove, same self-loathing attitude, surrounded by a wealth of people, but his temperament remains crude, let's see what's happening in the room.
Ladies in clans, skins tanned, sporting High Street gems and lesser known brands, sipping Bellinis' and Pinot, the odd cultured lady partaking in Merlot, cute as can be, dudes stand scattered, engrossed in their greatness, in their minds, others don't matter, their timepieces filled with icy matter, bench-press heroes, their arms looking fatter, they never do legs though, a loaf of bread balancing on two poles.
He smirked to himself, the world he inhabited, slightly confused him, but always amused him, he had other thoughts in his mind, at this moment in time, he sipped the last of his drink and floated away to think.
He held visions of success, wild philanthropy, he seemed happier in his dreams, probably, because he lived a better version of himself or so it would seem, one that not only jumped hurdles, but straight cleared them, a force to be reckoned with, an example for all men, knowledgable, conversant, a complete person, yeah, people would listen to that dream version.
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