Crazed. The weekend started out on Friday night when, at around 9:00pm, Joy called and demanded that I come over and hang out with her, Matt, and the girls. If I didn't come, she claimed she wouldn't be my friend anymore (I pinned that balloon right quick). So I trundled down Fernwood Avenue intent on her house. That was ridiculous, but there was beer and Joy collapsing down into a womb of her own making. There was another party on Saturday night - also at their house - with sword fighting and kitchen floor games of "I Never" (it sucks to play it with some people who happen to know a variety of the nasty things I've done). Sunday was good, except I acquired a bad case of food poisoning and spent quite a while in the bathroom. And at the end of it I got to go over to Michael's house - he came back from a brief Vancouver sojourn - and we watched Family Guy and Futurama together before going to bed. It still amazes me that I get to wake up beside him (even if it was hideously early this morning and I had to leave like a thief to go to work).
A weird fairy tale started to unfold in my head at work actually, and I commenced writing it down on my break. There's going to be rather a lot of cannibalism in it. And whales. I also decided that I really, really want to go to India; Arlene at work talked about it with me extensively, the weird powers of the Ganges (it got rid of some of her foot blisters at random).
The sun is shining (and the weather is sweet), and I feel like we should all be British pop stars who sing pointless songs penned presumably by Simon Fuller, each of us fitting into a predetermined stereotype like "the bad boy," or "the messy one." And maybe some of us could get busted for smoking pot in London and then there would be a loss of advertizing capital before the eventual "Behind the Music" special. And people all over the world would put up posters of us, spread rumours about our sexualities (how weird it would be, to read m/m or f/f slash fiction about yourself), complain about the shallow lyrics, and critique our music video fashion choices (yes, you can do the sparkly silver top, but not with the Cleopatra wig). Later, we'd split up the band and twelve year old girls everywhere would throw themselves into the abyss--