Well, this fuckin' figures.

It's a friday night. Collectively known as the beginning of the weekend.

I'm home alone. Why, you ask? Because I've spent the past 8 nights clubbing and raving and pretty much lacking any responsibility. The last 4 days (I've seen actual daylight, imagine my efforts) I've spent working. Precinct 5 is now officially open as of thursdaynight, and my blood, sweat and tears are in the construction of it. It was a long, stressful haul but we made it with a good 5 minutes to spare before the actual opening started. We didn't get around to hanging actual clothes, though. Which'd probably be something you might expect in an opening clothing-store. Find it kinda funny, find it kinda sad.
Last evening I worked at the Millionaire's Fair, which is exactly what the name entails. A bunch of rich folks and their inevitable wannabe's poking eachothers eyes out with yachts, cars and pieces of art. Bo's folks asked me if I could assist in their stand during the fair, which means I'll be there the next few days -til the last day, Monday- as well. Under the impression clothing would be arranged, I had no clue of the stress that'd await me when Bo called me early afternoon and told me 'Oh btw, dresscode's black tie!'.

..

Hands deep in filth and covered in dust, I had a blissful moment of non-understanding and silence in my head before it exploded. My mind raced off to my heavily-under-construction room at home, mentally scanning the half-unpacked suitcases with work clothes. I audibly swallowed in my mind before I let it drift off to under the bed and the severe lack of fancy heelage there. Okay. What does one need for a formal occasion?

- A proper Dress.
- Impressive but elegant Heels.
- A Shower.
- A proper Dinner. (read: champagne)
- Elegant yet expressive Make-up.
- Time to put all this on.

What did I have? A no, another No, a definite No, a Snort, a Laugh and a very desperate No.

I raced headfirst into a complete stressfit and my brain refused to think. I thought of the very first person who deals with fancy shit AND stress the best and called Fly. If I didn't already call her Fly I'd most definitely now. The bitch has wings, man.

I stole Wix's bike (I do not recommend riding a bike that's obviousy way too high for you if you're in a hurry, never had so many near death experiences in a row) and got the hell out of there, to her place. She told me to take a shower, got me the most gorgeous dress to borrow and -though extremely painful- matching shoes to boot. On top of that she cooked something up and it might have been plates of caviar, oysters and everything nice compared to what I'd figured I'd eat earlier. Wings. Wings! And a fuckin' halo!

Whilst munching on her cookery my brain figured the situation wasn't all that hopeless anymore and decided to join forces with me again. At first I moped and cried 'Deserter!' but I'm glad it came back to me. I ran off -or well, very awkwardly biked- back to the store, did the happy smile-and-wave thing and ran out off to the Millionaire's Fair.

I arrived in tattered and torn jeans, cowboy boots, a 50 Cent -as in, the 'rapper', figured them hiphop types would appreciate it, but I think they think I was making fun of them. How could they possibly?- T-Shirt with ripped off sleeves and my flying squirrel furcoat, carrying a hippie sling bag and a face to match all that. Needless to say I avoided the red carpet and stalked my way through the shadows. Monique -Bo's mom- met me at the door and we made our way to the stand together. Or well, she looked so stunningly fabulous I didn't dare even come close to her shadow in fear of ruining any shot they took of her and Jan, Bo's dad. And they took a lot. Two glasses of champagne and a lot of weird looks from proper penguins later I fitfully changed my clothes in a storage cupboard without any light. Transformation time! Or well, that was the general idea. Caught a quick reflection in a mirror and I'm not entirely convinced I succeeded.
Well, at least I brushed my hair. For the first time in months. Bo didn't. When she finally did arrive -fashionably late's a rather broad statement- her hair looked like I felt. Which I was incredibly glad for, I really, really felt I connected with her hair that night. It made me feel much better. Five hours and thrice as much bottles of champagne later Bo and I figured it was a perfectly sound idea to go out. We had ourselves dropped off in the Porsche outside the Minds and stumbled inside, still dressed for the -by then- wrong occasion. Mohawks and leather jackets stared at us as we casually tried to blend in with the rather colourful pinball machine as it was nearest by. After an uncomfortable look around we loudly declared the place was awfully boring and got ourselves a cab. Now for a destination. Bo -gotta love her clear mind, aherm- conveniently remembered she had guestlist spots for Paradiso, so off we went. Peaches was performing. That was all very great, but I couldn't move my upper legs as they were being strangled by the dress, my feet screamed murder and Bo had trouble moving at all as both her dress and heels were taller than she was. I can't remember the last time I frightfully backed away from the usual bunch of guys trying to start their itty bitty pits at the wrong gigs.

All in all, we're retarded. Everything's retarded.

But yeah, more on Precinct5 and life when I'm not so severely subdued in wondrous selfpity at my current lifeless state. Namely, on this here couch.