It works well, dammit.
This week was good. I liked it. Not much happened class wise, and Ngoni and I went to another baseball game ('cos we didn't learn our lesson the first time). No, dear gentle reader, this week was good for the sheer amount of alcohol swimming through my veins.
You see, the Democrat Society are a great group of people. On Thursday they invited me to a bar Downtown called Charbar. Of course I went. It's a great way to meet people, and fuck, the girl's are hawt.
It was a good shout.
For some reason, and one I will never challenge, everything was paid for. At least for me it was. Ngoni had to pay for shit. Other people were paying for shit. But not me. I think we both know I abused this. How much I drank is irrelevant.
It's quite astonishing how small the bar is, yet managed to encompass all of us. I can't put into words the fun I had. Talking to everyone, just meeting people and discovering which of my classes they were in. I doubt I'll go a day at school without seeing someone from that night.
So, whatever time we left (I have a feeling it was about 2, maybe 3) Ngoni and I split a cab to his place. Fuck am I getting a cab back to mine. I crash on his futon and wake up knowing I'll have to face a class.
I kinda wanted to go to class, but I just felt so rough. The bus ride back home was broken up by visiting a few shops. I went into Marshall's and Old Navy by the Galleria, got another bus, stopped into Academy (a huge fuck off sports and outdoor store), went into Boston Market and had an amazing chicken sandwich, then finally got on another bus.
I knew that there was to be a social hour on Friday. The fliers for it were all over the college. I just didn't know if I was going to go. First, getting there would be a bitch. Second, HOW THE FUCK WOULD I GET BACK?! Third, I had just tied one on.
But, I went. You know that feeling where you feel like you missed out? That you could've had the best night of your life? The feeling that eats at you and makes you feel moody?
Well, that feeling I didn't want to have.
The bus ride in was a bitch, requiring three separate buses, some waiting around and a whole lot of avoiding eye contact, I arrive at Rebel's.
It's a country bar. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but let's face it, I'm a geeky white boy. This ain't my scene. Fuck it, let's do this scene.
Ngoni was already there. He was the fuck who persuaded me to go, so I expect him to show up. He had a beer waiting for me, which was nice. So, we spoke to people we already knew from around the school. And kept talking, drinking, meeting people, recognizing faces, drinking, talking, drinking, etc.
I do not recall at what point the music became intensely country, but I do know that, beyond my own belief, I liked it. I know, I was shocked too. Now, let me qualify that statement. I don't love country, I certainly won't be buying any albums, nor downloading anything, and fuck off will I go to a country concert. But I can dig it in the context of a night out. When in Rome, right?
The dance floor ebbed and flowed with the dances that EVERYONE knows. I can't dance. I am not getting on that dancefloor. Then the linedancing happened.
OK, I linedanced. Just once, I swear. Obviously I was awful, but the blatantly gay guy (who was in denial) insisted I do it. He was in my personal zone far too often all night. Hey, buddy, you're a nice guy an' all, but you are making far too much bodily contact. Unless you are a lady I do not want this contact. No sir, not today, no way, no how.
The night wa--
Sorry, I've just come back from the cinema. The American is a damn fine film. Watch it. Watch it now.
Anyway, the night was good. I dunno where I was going with that.
College football is on. I am not invested in who wins.
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