The Cure We all parlayed forth to Halo last night, as I'm sure you could tell in a certain asshole's blog. I had a really good time, but in all the dancing, I felt like an ungraceful clod for the most part. Usually, I consider myself to be a good dancer, no holds barred, or however the phrase goes, but I had barely any rythm. When I have barely any rythm (hormones, believe it or not, do this to me) I tend to use the same moves repetitively. I was in a new club, and thus it was not good, because I hate being repetitive and become more inclined to goof off and make a bad first impression all around because hipsters don't like it if you don't take their "refuge of the ONLY like-minded elitists here" seriously. Read: finely arched and plucked eyebrows raise over a long mentholated cigarette in scowling disgust as you gyrate and grind your hips on the closest "gay" boy available. I say "gay" because Fenton is a sexless being for the mostpart nowadays, thankfully.

Of course, when one is dancing badly, the first cure that instantly comes to mind in such a setting is not necessarily the best one. And not necessarily effectual either. I was even welcoming becoming hummingbird-esque, buzzing and flitting around "gracefully" in my mind's eye. But could my goddess of the liquor assist me in what is usually so easily done with one pint? Of course not. It would be too easy to turn me into a dancing bear with only one screwdriver. Three drinks later and I felt not a thing. A looser and more venomous tongue, mayhaps, but otherwise I was depressingly sober and out more money then I wanted to be. I was in a better and more raucous mood later though. Originally, I was being all fretty about money and dancing and whatever, but about one third of the night I did at least know to say, "fuck it. Enjoy yourself while you can."

Halo: Good music, cheap alcohol. Oh baby, we shall return.

Westjet got tired (read: crashed) so we pulled out early before the loving of Halo was orgasmically complete, and went to Chicago deep dish, and my god if my friends don't think I'm the most defenseless thing on the planet or something. Mr. Smith knows better. It is stupid perhaps, but I'm just not afraid of people at all. It doesn't matter if I am or not. If you're going to hurt me, it's going to happen, whether I know you or not. I'll deal with it as it comes, but there's never any point of fretting about it theoretically.

  ¶ 9:49 PM