An exciting dramatization of the weekend. By me.
On Friday night, I went to some bar called Fuel with Shirley and Rob. Shirley does my hair and Rob has no hair. We were meeting my platonic partner in crime Polly (i wish crime had a silent ‘p’ at the start). We’d never actually been to Fuel before. Polly had recommended the place and she was late. It was a weird place. They had lots of hippie/druggie memorabilia on the wall and the place was full of art students and goths and other freaks wearing black. I suppose it makes the washing easy since you don’t have to worry about the colors ruining your whites. There was a pretty cool porcelain head of The Phantom with glowy eyes.
Rob and I had beers. Shirley, got plastered and vomited a lot the last time she had five cans of beer. She drank a non-alcoholic fizzy instead.
Polly came and my god, she wasn’t wearing her Comfortable Pants. She looked pretty hot but for the POINTY HIGH HEELED SHOES OF DOOM. They went on for another 3 inches after the toe finished in an absolutely deadly looking spike.
We drank the night away.
Shirley was unable to walk because her boots had given her feet blisters and cut off the circulation to her feet. Womens fashion apparel are stupid. It’s not like a guy looks at a girl’s feet anyways and we were seated all night so she might as well have been wearing wellies.
Rob eventually took Shirley home, allegedly in a shopping kart.
Polly and I went to am bar (yes, it’s lower case). The place is under a car park so its hotter than the pits of hell and twice as smokey. The place wasn’t really full but the music was right and they had a nice couch bit where you sit and watch guys and girls ‘dance’.
The lack of ventillation and oxygen in am bar made us insanely sleepy. Time for bed. Quick coffee. Taxi. No tip. In bed by 3.30.
I wake up the next day 5pm (!).
Went to see About A Boy with Polly. Good movie.
In bed, exhausted, at 11pm (!).
Wake up 11am. Saturday seemed to pass by quite quickly.
Sunday night at the laundromat, I met an Iraqi guy who couldn’t work the dryer. There’s a coin slot and one button. I thought maybe he was a distant relative of Pat. I was the only guy there so there was no escaping his small talk in broken English. Where was I from? What did I study? Where is my father? Do you like white girls or Asian girls?
He started talking about some girl he met in Malaysia.
“Her pussy was sooooooo tight (finger gesture). She verrrrry wet. She was crying. Fantastic”
He also told me he had a white girlfriend who dumped him after September 11. Which makes no sense since the guy is from Iraq. I left before he told he started his next story.
Check mail. Posted here. Now it’s time for bed. The days go by so fast.