A Moment in the Life of a Metacognitive, Existentialist Teenager #2

A Story by DezChampion

Teenagers are either too much or too little, will we ever fit in?

So this is by far the worst party I have ever been to in all the 17 years of my fiesta-career. And by worst party I mean it is completely and utterly average. In fact, it is the exact same experience as any and every other party I find myself obliged to attend. I mean who wants to go to something where the people are so human and the music is so fitting for a good time. Wait, what did I even just say? Maybe I’m just boring. There are so many people here who just look like they are having fun. Or maybe they’re acting like they’re having fun to merely create one holistic concept that if you go to a party with alcoholic beverages, other possible illegal substances, and people around your own age who are dressed semi-to-sufficiently attractive that that means we are, indeed, properly maximizing the time that life sets aside for us adolescents, which I will prematurely refer to as the not-so-golden years; pointing out the fact that, coincidentally, gold is not as lucrative as it once was, so maybe these experiences that we only get before we’re “adults”- whatever that means- aren’t really as fulfilling as they used to be, and then we just end up as vacuous grown-ups, or rather prolonged adolescents who teach their kids to be the same by not being able to tell them anything meaningful because they know nothing of the sort, but only of parties where they thought their life was made. They don’t realize that this is just filler-space, but even I don’t know what that space is for. Maybe I should go grab a beer. Oh look at that, I already have three in my hand. I am such a conformist. Okay, so what to do? Look, people. I will go to my brethren and attempt to speak their language.

“Hashtag mingling to be less awkward.”

“Too existentialist for me to register right now, bro.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I have three beers in my hand?”

“TURN UP!”

“Yeah! More like TURN DOWN! Seriously, this music is terrible, please turn it down. I don’t know whether I should dance or have a seizure and call it twerking.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Not anymore. Bye.”

I really would have thought I’d be better at this by now. Damn it, I thought progress happened by osmosis. When does this thing even end? Man, why did I show up? Oh, I know. If I don’t show up I get s**t for not going, and if I do, I tend to feel like s**t because it’s like all these parties are just a gathering of insecurities, immature opinions, gossiping, jealousy, trying-too-hard-ness, attention issues, the meta-cogs- like me, the people who are the right mix of the meta-cog and the normal adolescent- who I envy, and the others; i.e. the filler-space of the party that is filler-space. Oh yeah, plus substances that increase all those things to way past level 9,000. I actually think I might be the filler-space of the filler-space of the party- which is filler-space. I’m always sitting next to weird people. There are two problems with that. Firstly: I’m sitting when everyone has clearly seen me not dancing, so I can't really tell them I'm tired. And it’s not like I could tell them my legs are mad at me for dragging them to this party, even though it’s true. I swear my legs say mean things to me like if they could kick me in the face they would and I’m totally like that’s so weird legs because YOU CAN’T EVEN TALK. And then they don’t say anything. And then I’m left being awkward with my legs. Forget I said anything. Secondly: when I’m sitting it always leaves the opportunity for weird people to approach me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about weird people. My legs and I are the embodiment of that category; however, abnormal still exists at parties, if that’s possible. Like why does this guy keep showing me videos of him singing when I can’t even hear it over the music. He can at least do a better job at being filler-space. You know, try to act like you’re looking at someone attractive, or be the drunk guy who passed out from too much “hardcore-ness,” or bob your head to the music, like me. I wonder who else is here. Wait, was this person always sitting right in front of me? Why does it look like she’s overdosing on lip-stick? Why is she staring at me?

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, you keep bobbing your head, but there’s no music playing.”

Great, now I’m not good at being filler-space.

“Oh, right. You know what, can I tell you something, honestly?”

“Sure, go ahead," she said.

“I was just talking to the audience in my head about my life and all of its misadventures, and was just judging this guy over here who- is he passed out?”

I guess he’s better at this then me.

“Yeah, he passed out probably half-way through while you were judging him. Happens all time when you’re filler-space.”

“You know about filler-space?”

“Of course. We’re all filler-space, just trying to read in between the lines, thinking we're supposed to complete the spaces around us when, in actuality, they’re the things that are supposed to complete us.”

I think my night just found some meaning.

“Please, tell me everything you know.”