Saturday was nuts. Haven't been out on the piss like that, going from one party to the next, since, I dunno, 2007.
It started off at Doc's house, watching a bit of rugga and shooting the breeze over a couple of gin and tonics. From there, Doc and Big T came with me to an Emo party.
I say Emo only because there were a lot of hoodies and tats and black fucked up hair. We were the three preppiest folks there (well Big T and Doc at least, wearing collars and all) and we pitched up with an even preppier bottle of cabernet.
Which later was thrown all over the couch.
What an amazing party though; Steve Urkel was chatting up kd lang, while a barefoot Joni Mitchell was spading Alanis Morrissette, while Marilyn Manson kept his shades on inside.
Went mad on the dancefloor, chased most people away, and made a mental note to wear my craptastic crowdpleasing arty shit next time.
Big T proclaimed, “Hang on! Is she wearing drapes?”
From there, the Jolly Roger had its 15th birthday – can you imagine that. Fifteen years of half price pizza.
All their drinks, in celebration, were the price that they had been fifteen years ago. Pints were like six bucks! Had a few Guinnesses to celebrate. It was pouring buckets outside and along with the pints and the pub – we could've been sitting in Little Puking somewhere, it was wonderful. I even jolled with my brolly. The one The Ant pilfered from The Westcliff that one time.
Then someone called Jaegermeister and that was it. Hit The Attic, got whoringly out of hand, tormented the djs, drank a fishbowl of some sorts, and danced with Dockers and company until the early hours of the morning.
Fuck me, did I feel like the hairy side of a goat's scrotum the next morning.
Was basically out of order for the whole of Sunday while my mother told me more things to increase my general and overall paranoia.
Like I need to wear a moonbag in Brazil.
Like my new laugh (I just woke up one day and had a new laugh. It happens) instills instant terror in people.
Like how lone, white, female tourists are the number one target in Brazil.
Like how the global economic crisis is worsening and that soon we'll be queuing for bread and bog roll.
Mum's research on Brazil has left me with a feeling of dread, not a "Fucken yes! I'm going to pardy the fucken place out." I'm terrified.
I watched Bridget Jones this weekend. For the instant pick me upper. You can feel frumpy, old, lonely, fat, singing karaoke in your house in your pj's with a bottle of wine, generally feel like a loser, and Bridget just sorts it all out for you.
Was an Emo Kid yesterday. Big time.
Helen Fielding, you little biscuit. Thank you for creating Bridget. People like me need her around sometimes.