June 10, 2003 @ 12:33 a.m.
In which the authoress is a danger to polite sobriety

My life is a currently study in what happens when you try to fit about 3 months' worth of drinking into two weekends.

Who needs to eat when you're getting all your calories from alcohol, anyway?

This lovely long weekend where we Australians pay tribute to the Monarch's birthday has been about sex drugs and rock'n'roll - and I did it all for Lizzie. Okay so it didn't actually involve any drugs on my part, but had I thought of it, it might have. Not to worry.

Last night was of course the Nashville Pussy gig at the Corner, with the excellent Sixfthick playing support. My night was officially made when NP played 'Johnny Hotrod', although it was a very good night besides. I ended up dirty dancing with (or perhaps "on" is a more apt term) Stuart in my heels and skimpy/skanky top, and later on bought a skimpier/skankier Nashville Pussy t-shirt with 'In lust we trust' on it. It's like they read my mind and then put the contents on a t-shirt. The girl at the merch stand let me try it on, which I thought was nice, although that resulted in the guy at the merch stand yelling "BUSTYYYYYY!" very loudly, and people stared. And by this time, Stu had disappeared outside to wait for me, so I had no second opinion and no one to give the Icy Stare of Death, which I was having too much of a shy and embarrassed moment to do. Sigh.

Outside, I ran into my friend Lissa and her boyfriend Chucky, neither of whom I've seen in ages. We did the catch-up thing briefly in the cold on Swan St, arms crossed against the cold and stepping down harder than needed on the footpath in a vain attempt to get our blood working harder. She worries me sometimes, Lissa. She's made a few life decisions of late that I love her too much to call crap, so I'll call them odd. But it was good to see her, however briefly and however incoherently (I was tired and dehydrated, which always means that beer has more of an effect on me).

Saturday night was spent at Stu's, quiet and generally pretty unremarkable (to anyone but us. I don't think I need to go down the "Woohoo, sex!" path again).

Friday night was spent in good company in a bar off Chapel St, at a going away party for a girl I hardly know. I'm sad she's leaving anyway, as she's very cool, and I shan't see her for at least a year as she's off to shag her way around Europe.

I talked to a few people there but not knowing many and not feeling hugely sociable, mostly it was just me and Leah and waaay too much wine on a couch in front of the fireplace, sharing stories we'd never breathed before in that way you do when you're drunk and in some of the best company of your life. I don't think either of us said stuff we shouldn't have, but we did say things that would have been left unsaid had we not had so much alcohol.

Upon leaving, we wandered down Chapel looking for a taxi, and I thought of some personal fact I really wanted to write here, which was not actually a secret but something I'd never shared. Of course, it was forgotten some time later. We got a taxi relatively quickly, and had a cool driver with whom I conversed purely in Simpsons quotes for the drive back to Leah's place. The taxi driver and I were having a great time, and Leah sat there with her head in her hands because she can't believe anyone can have memorised entire chunks of dialogue, and yet Mark (that's what the name plate said he was called, anway) and I are living proof that it's possible.

I woke up on Saturday morning, rather seedy, and discovered that I'd been sending Stuart drunken SMSes of adoration and philosophy. Since my drunk philosophy generally involves stating the bleeding obvious, I'm sure they were very entertaining, whatever I said. Unless it was something along the lines of "guess what? I just blew the bartender!", but I'm sure it wasn't that. And I'm pretty sure I didn't do that.

And then we went and had coffee, and then shoe shopped. I had no luck with shoes; at one point, I clomped up to Leah and whined "how can my feet look fat? They're BONE!". But I compensated by buying a lot of stuff at Passionfruit. I was sorely tempted by the Virgin/Slut pack o'goodies, but couldn't really justify spending $40 on what was essentially a couple of pots of lip gloss and a few bars of soap. It was very cute though.

And that, girls and boys, was essentially my weekend. I'm sure there's a moral in there somewhere; probably along the lines of "the liver is evil and must be punished".

Currently Rasputin, my very large pet huntsman spider, is hanging out on the ceiling right above my head. This gives me less warm fuzzy feelings than you might think.

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