Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Eight Ate Eight (Or, A Triumphant Return to...What Was I Talking About?)
I'd say "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah", but clearly that's not sufficient to cover the borderline-two-weeks of not posting.
I had a couple of feverish, heady moments where I was all steamed up and hot and bothered and loose and willing and able and steady and ready to rock this rhyme and bust out something here...but I've been up to my eyes in boxes.
If I were a lesbian, I'd be in heaven.
Although I've been accused of being a lesbian more often than I'd care to admit, my box fever is simple really: I'm moving into a new apartment next week.
In lieu of the continent of various other "oh-shit-oh-shit-I haven't-written" excuses I need to make to cover my ass, I'll drop a teeny tiny bitchy sort-of-not-really-story instead.
Friday night I went out to dinner with a group of gay friends...the night got drunkity drunk fairly quickly, and although there were dozens (yes...dozens) of moments I should share, I can only remember three snippets of conversation - neither of which I can take credit for:
"He's a top? On top of what?"
"No, they're not strippers. They're from New Jersey."
"Christ it smells like penis in here."
Sometime soon I'll make like Stella and get her groove back...or at the very least I'll make like Stella Artois and get my Belgian beer on tap back.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.