Silly announcement of the day:

Edgar Allan & I were the only people at our table last night that have never deflowered anyone. But he's a virgin & shouldn't count for these purposes.

October 18, 1998.

Did not have a very good night last night. As advertised, I joined Baby Jenks, Daniel, Maharet & Edgar Allan for a night at the local hot spot, after repeated attempts had been made to get Baby Jenks into the city to fulfil a long-time ambition to dance at Sanctuary. One of the things that made me very frustrated with my high-school friends in my first year at university was that it was almost impossible to get them to come to the city. But Daniel & Maharet have been extraordinary about commuting this past little while, and I thought that a night at Sanctuary (or Skanktuary, as it's colloquially known) was in the cards. Not that I can't go goth dancing any time I feel like it...and since the bar fight broke out last week-end, my enthusiasm for the only Brampton night club has somewhat waned.

This was slightly but noticeably compounded by Trevor's absence, as he was nursing a bad headache yesterday, and ducked out as gracefully as possible. I wasn't horrendously upset by his absence, but it would've been nice if he was there...if only to stop the drunker elements from approaching me on the dance floor.

Guy: "How're you guys doing tonight?!"

Me: "Fine!"

"I said mumble murrmflo snarrrpy..."

...add beer & serve thoroughly disoriented. A potential desire to have sex with me was also expressed by one of our group to a third party. Needless to say, I heard about my Siren powers all the way home, despite the fact that I was not a bit flattered by the dance floor conversation (the fuckable comment I found rather amusing, tho'). Considering that I was wearing consciously scruffy corduroy clothes & very little glamour of any kind, I must've looked like I had low standards. Unlike Maharet & Baby Jenks, who looked good & therefore of discriminating taste. It was a bit galling & uncomfortable, actually...Baby Jenks is on the prowl, and didn't attract even crappy come-ons, tho' she looked gorgeous and I looked like a guy. Sort of.

Ended up in one of those frank & shockingly revealing discussions on sex that women actually have...not just the women in movies & "daring" teevee shows. Despite my bald assertion to the contrary, tho', Baby Jenks persists in thinking that I'm a dyke. Which is a label I would quite enjoy, if it were true. She also spoke at length about the sex-life with her soon-to-be ex-husband. Yeah, she was pretty trashed at this point of the evening...but I heard of some interesting pseudo-dominatrix tricks that pique my curiosity. Setting a new record in bluntness, Maharet even asked me if Trevor was "better" than Mr. Blonde. With Edgar Allan (i.e. Mr. Blonde's best friend) sitting only a few chairs away, I felt terribly naughty being asked such things.

But the really interesting thing, dear reader, is that my summer of coincidences is extending well into the autumn season. It goes like this: Trevor likes Morrissey. Unlike many sensitive & misunderstood teens, I do not. When questioned about this, I can only respond that I violently disliked a boy in high-school who used to wear Morrissey shirts all the time, although I cannot give you a specific example explaining my dislike of this boy. Dating someone who is sympathetic to Morrissey has made me somewhat re-evaluate this old prejudice, which I thought would continue unchallenged until my death. Well, guess who showed up with one of Maharet's friends last night?

The Morrissey Fan. The very boy.

Sigh.

I tried to pretend that the Morrissey Fan (hereafter referred to as MF) & I had never met before (not hard: he was at the opposite end of the table) until Maharet's friend informed me that he'd already told MF about me & my immature loathing. Double sigh...but then I started to laugh. What had I been planning, anyway? To build a friendship with MF? Never mentioning that I hated him for years? Just fucking ridiculous. And it felt good to be called on such a stupid line of thought, too.

But I still punched Maharet's friend a couple of times, just to express my social embarrassment. Good ones, right in the ribs. I hit like a girl, so don't be too concerned.

I know, it doesn't sound too bad. But this is the abridged version...part 2 cast a rather severe pall over the evening, and you will not be reading it. I do have some measure of delicacy, even if it only shows up at odd & unpredictable times.

The bare facts are that I slept for about 4 hours on Maharet's bedroom floor before my mom came to fetch me for church. I felt particularly slimy dressed in yesterday's clothes, smelling of nightclub & not having attended service since the summer (and in Don Cherry's old church, to boot). But I was terribly curious as to how the service would run now that the ancient choir mistress & organist has been unceremoniously deposed, causing the kind of division & petty gossip you'd expect. The disorder was such that I was asked to eke out the meager alto section. Me, the girl who hasn't been to church regularly for 3 years, and who hasn't sung in the choir for more than 4. Me, the girl who wanted to yawn through the service, buried in unwashed weekend slime. But I was a pushover.

Suit me up, ladies, and pass me the Shubert. Tisiphone the Rogue Chorister. Yeah.