23 on the Verge of SpontaneousCombustion

All you get is 55 hours. From 5 P.M. Friday till Midnight Sunday. In that time, sleep is a necessity of the highest order, yet something that gets brushed under the rug. Trips need to be made, friends must be seen, all under the guise of using those 55 hours to the fullest possible extent. And it's never sufficient.



This weekend saw the oddest variation of sensations, from feeling euphoric to realizing that sentiment doesn't get you as far as it did previously. And that people's passions don't have to be the same as the ones you subscribe to, but it helps.



Mere hours after my souce of employment finished for the day found my person being escorted to a place called "Cache"- perhaps any place sharing a name with IE's cookie bin should be shunned. A Gwen Stefani lookalike caught my friend's notice, as well as my own- we chose that moment to inform her of it, but she did not seem impressed. Perhaps she was out of touch, more so than my friend or myself, probably thinking Gwen was part of some new country violin band. (TIM McGRAW SUCKS). If not, the look of someone trying to pretend to enjoy a martini should be amusement enough. Style comes from holding the glass, without drinking.



The next evening found me at a place where I accidentally bumped elbows with a British sister..."where are you from", I enquired..."Eng-a-LAND" she said, in the condescening tone of voice that made me think she had that question about as often as Jahanna wears plaid. "Obviously," I replied- "but you are definitely a Cockney, for your dialect gives you away. Tell me, how is it that you came to be here, among us?" She looked remarkably confused, so I broke it into smaller words. "You all right? On holiday then? I could do with a bit of a Tom Cruise, me-self. Fancy a bit of snogging with me mate Francesco?" (And pointed to Bill Degaspri). The look of astonishment and relief that washed over her made me feel part of something. I excused myself and went to go find some more Americans.



The next twilight period was all about using food for amusement, rather than eating it. A raid was made of a freezer, with the items being "borrowed" for our own purposes. A twenty pound Butterball, a rolling pin, and a twin brother were confiscated. All survived unharmed, except for the Butterball. Flag football should not be played using a frozen turkey, unless you have specific instructions that the Butterball needs to get out more, and live a little.



Listening to what people expound has always been part of my nature- when an artist can convey that in music, it becomes infinitely more valuable. "In This Diary"- my song of the weekend. Whether I choose to grow up, or not.