Friday was a bit insane.
But whatever. What really sketched out Friday for me was getting lost in the purlieu of suburbia.
This happens from time to time, where I find myself in Groundhog Hell.
I left Benmore and drove into Parkmore. And didn't leave for another 2 hours. By all fault of my own.
You know when you're driving along and then suddenly, this suburbicarian labyrinth just goes and swallows you the fuck up? One minute you can see Sandton City due west.
Then you're on an obscure 156th Street or the likes, facing a boom, tearing around corners in a panic, because you're so fucking lost and disorientated by the sheer suburban vastness of this dorky place, and the faubourg maze that is the mundane suburb of Parkmore won't let you out?
How many times can 1 x white Beetle drive down a street, back and forth, blaring Top Gun's Take My Breath Away? without having someone alert security? The answer: 78 times.
Total party killer.
I got out eventually. Stumbling onto Grayston after going round and round in circles, sweating, breaking out in hives and...annoyed that the debacle just chomped up half my night and increased my carbon footprint due to sheer disregard for basic nautical direction.
Saturday I went out with Guy I'm Having Fun With At The Moment and his mates to klap a couple of prawns in Kensington. During the main course, I started getting the most overwhelmingly moonstruck, if not unsound, urge.
It started creeping under my skin, making me want to paw at my face.
I wanted to belt out a song. In a very real and very direct way.
I wanted to sing in public. In a very disgusting place.
I made everyone come with me to the Colony.
Now, maybe I just haven't been there on a Saturday in months and months and months, and maybe it's because I haven't released myself over a microphone to a throng of drunk and disorderly people caned up to the eyeballs, for a while.
But the place was even more scatological than I even remembered.
Someone was telling me that when the place was held up a few months ago, and when everyone was told to lie on the floor, while guns were being pointed, one girl was like, 'Listen. No ways. Sorry. There's no ways I'm touching this floor.' (Shoot me, fine. But the floor? That's completely unreasonable.)
First thing I do when I arrive, is put my hand on a chair, where there has formed a small puddle of urine. No jokes.
Annoyingly, we never got to sing. The queue was too long, and the DJ put his foot down when I asked him. The DJ gave me bat. The incidulent bastard.
We did however drink cane and cream soda like the good old days, and like always, it does crazy crap to the reactive centre of my brain. Someone poked me in the forehead and I nearly punched him, but besides that, it was a solid 7/10 night.
Now. My Can You Twist story launches this week. On t'Internet. Each day a chapter is revealed. Can you dig it?
If you can like it, be a devil and vote. And I'll purr with appreciation. And podcast it if you like. (Me purring. Podcast-style.)
But don't worry, I probably wouldn't do that. Probably.