I have discovered that camping is a lot better when you’re surrounded by good friends, coolers filled with beer, and an endless supply of wieners as opposed to 30 or more children.
Friday evening, my writer friends and I packed up our gear and went. Impromptu and carefree. We headed to Fitzgerald’s Pond Park in Placentia, about an hour outside of the city. We were pleased to find our sites located near the beach.
We set up our tents and immediately started a fire, then spent the next several hours singing filthy campfire songs and roasting marshmallows and weenies. In an attempt to maintain my new, more responsible lifestyle, I only drank six beers before passing out at 2 a.m. The others stayed up until 5.
The next morning, KJax and I awoke bright and early for a refreshing swim in the pond. I lost feeling in my body from my va-j-j downwards, and only managed to swim for twenty minutes before I called it quits. Plus the little fishies tickling my nether-regions were a bit alarming.
By the time we headed back to town, I felt incredibly satisfied to have finally done something outdoorsy. I can’t think of a better aroma than the thick scent of campfire smoke mixed with greenery.
Anyway, from the wilderness to the club scene…yesterday marked Chef’s 24th Birthday, and so I was forced to party my ass off despite only having two hours of sleep. As soon as I came home from camping, I crashed face-down on my bed for two hours and awoke in a puddle of drool.
A few of us headed to Chef’s friend’s place for a joint-Birthday celebration. Most of the people there were from Iran, and boy do they ever love their Persian dance music. The party host had even bought a smoke machine and some strobe lights…I haven’t seen those since my first year of university! But they were a jolly crowd and really dominated the dance scene, so we all had a blast. Until I felt myself approaching SEIZURE and had to sit down for awhile.
We journeyed to The Loft, then Lottie’s which alarmingly smelled like fecal matter. But fuck we love that place! The White Stripes never gets old.
And then, after arriving home for bed time, I was trying to close the bathroom door and discovered it was broken.
“I’ll help!” said Chef, and with all his strength slammed the door shut with a violent crash. ON MY FINGERS.
I screamed bloody murder and fell to the floor grasping my hand, then rolled around in exaggerated pain. The truth is, I have an extremely high threshold for pain, and it actually didn’t hurt at all. But HOLY FUCK my fingers should no longer be attached!!!! In fact, I woke up today and they were just fine, WHICH CANNOT BE POSSIBLE. I am made of STEEL, don’t fuck with me.
Well, it hurts to touch my fingers and there’s a rather large, purple swollen area around my knuckles. But I can still type. At the time it happened, all I could think about was “OMG I’m gonna get fired!! My fingers are my livelihood!!!!”
So here it is, Sunday, and I am officially taking a social hiatus. For five days. I do not want to be involved in ANY shenanigans for FIVE DAYS, until the official kick-off of the George Street Festival. And at that point some of Chef’s friends are visiting for the weekend, and I might fall off the celibacy wagon.
Well first I have a coffee date with PAB, and Muffin and her friend are coming for a visit…but THEN I’m on a social hiatus. Yep.
Brit over at Blunt Delivery has bestowed an award upon me, which let me tell you, is probably the greatest thing to happen to me all year. Not even kidding. The fact that someone out there actually enjoys reading about my life is beyond pleasing. Plus it couldn’t have come at a better time, when I’m feeling a little wiped out and down in the dumps. THANKS Brit, you totally made my day! Now if only I can figure out how to display said award.