Sunday, January first, there will be a chill unwind-from-partying party-gathering at my apartment starting at three in the afternoon.
If you are unaware of the address, either e-mail me at bloodkrystal hot-mail or call three to one poem for directions.
We’re having a hair-cutting party at Sara‘s house right now. The people around me right are drunkenly preparing to play strip poker, I think with the same sense of hope as young boys that agree to play stripping games with young girls who are loaded down with four layers of scarfs, costume jewelry, and gew gaws in spite of the obvious disparity against their t-shirts and jeans. (Though I admit that Mike may simply be playing because it’s poker.) They are laying down rules and trying to pick on the men, who aren’t complaining.
Sometimes I am almost appalled at my lack of interest in these things. Everyone else is rapt, impatient with their cards, (those who aren’t having sex in the bedroom, that is), and I am across the room instead, lost in the laptop screen, feeling uncomfortable in my suddenly short hair and playing with the music, trying to find something that would be suitably amusing for people to take off their clothes to.