prison tats and street rats

No one at work has noticed the fact the I have 'Butt Tuff' written on my knuckles in permanent marker. Or maybe they have, and don't want to ask about it, because they fucking KNOW they will get an inky punch in the face. Um, perhaps not.

This weekend was a fucking scream, even though I worked my face off, I still found a little smidge of time to throw some drinks in there for good measure. Friday night was quiet and tinged with the abject hatred of having viewed Match Point, which might actually have been worse than Melinda and Melinda, but it's hard to say. It's like comparing gangrene to the knowledge that people are inherently selfish - both arduous and unfortunate in their own little way with little to redeem either one.

Saturday, after working the entire day away, I liberated myself and joined my dear Renae and new coworky friend Jeremy at a karaoke/hookah-smoking party, which was kind of fantastic for this reason: I saw two seperate groups of people I met in Austin at two very different points. And this was a pretty small party, so it seemed wildly coincidental. But all around me, people have pointed to the coincidencia that defines Austin, it being at once a small town and a big city. Love the combo.

Group one: two girls whose acquaintance I met amid the drunkery of New Year's Eve this year. My ex-ish friend Raquel almost single-handedly redeemed her manipulative ass by picking me up late NYE to go get my party on and pick up my visiting dreamweaver from Montana. We also picked up four crazydrunk girls from Club deVille. They were all cool, or so I thought - one of them sat in front, was violently wasted and pestering the living shit out of me. Then she started critiquing my driving. At which point I reached over (she was riding shotty, alas (for her!)) and just threw open the passenger side door, at, oh 50 miles an hour. Heehee. Um, she was wearing her seatbelt. I think.

But, I saw her and her friend. The friend remembered me from my karaoke stylings (to be described in a moment) and my near-victim hadn't the foggiest who I was, but she was stoked to instantly start talking shit about Raquel (yay!).

Group two: My Devotchka friends. I was pretty startled to see those two cats, let's call them Dale and Veronica (their names). Veronica even hopped in on the disasterous sinking ship that was my attempt to sing 'I Wanna Know What Love Is.' Obviously, this is a terrible song, but I didn't realize how much of it was comprised of something besides passionately screaming that YOU wanna know what love is. Oops. The Neil Diamond went better, I'm glad/sorry to say.

Anyway, it was a really fun night, it was wild and fun to see such divergent acquaintances merge under the simple auspices of a smallish house party.

And even though I had to face my not favorite person at 8:30 the next morning at the coffee house, I demanded of myself that I continue getting my party on until after 2. Actually, the whiskey demanded it. And even though I slept like shit and was slightly hung over, I performed admirably under pressure and spent the afternoon and early evening boozing with my new friendcrush Jenn, whose friends branded me with the 'Butt Tuff' knucklicker. She runs with a refreshingly and intimidatingly witty pack - I'm all about it. Definitely deep in friendlust.

I had a great time and finally felt like I was crawling out of this stagnation I've been feeling such an abundance of lately.

I still wanna know what love is, though. And I want YOU to show me.