Prevalent Omnicide

Habit dictates a post. I have mentally written and rewritten several in the past weeks, some of them lyrical, some of them cold and stark, many of them trying desperately to sound like the way M. John Harrison writes. I considered a post about why I wasn't posting any of them, but can't dredge up the effort.
My memories have become an imperfect film dealing with the inexplicable actions of strangers. I am left with the clips that hit the editing room floor, and while they are evocative and potent, they are not altogether coherent or pleasant, and for the most part were cut for a reason. They are memories not worth holding onto.
I remember the parties, but a party is a party is a party, and it is never the parties themselves that are interesting.
I have strong memories of Caroline's birthday party. I was sitting at her table, drinking Vanlig (which means "Regular" in Swedish) vodka straight from the bottle (I had stolen it from a surly Frenchman named Bruno a few days previously) and talking to a visiting German named Felix who I was quite disappointed to like so much, because I really wanted to fuck his girlfriend. I remember the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the radio and everyone sitting around smoking Two Apple Blend out of an ornate black-and-silver waterpipe. Sarah was there and Caroline was angry with me over something she thought I remembered saying a week before. Someone insisted on playing David Hasselhoff to prove that the national German love for his "music" is a myth.
I remember going to Varmlands and dancing and hating it. I remember going for a long walk in the pounding rain late Tuesday night. Most of what I remember about Ashley's toga party last night is Sarah completely drunk and coming on to everyone there and not going home with me at the end. I haven't decided yet if it's worth being furious with her or not.
It has been a pallid, waterlogged couple of weeks, and it's my hope that the next two more than make up for it. Catch you guys on the flip side.