I got coaxed into going to the paleontology exhibit on the boat with Q last night. It seemed also to be a kind of pagan ritual celebrating the great pink mammoth. People were dressed in strange, fury attire and performed ritual dances, celebrations and libations. All but me, of course. I rushed down to meet Q wearing a work shirt and jeans which, once I boarded the boat, made me stand out like a buffoon. I looked like an undercover narcotics officer; a thing that prevented me from procuring any illicits - not that I could take any on a Sunday night, with work looming like a tidal wave on the horizon.
It was fun though. Cruising around the bay watching the sun set and the skyline come alive was something to see. The bridges were beautiful. And on the boat, there was so much scantily-clad cornea candy that I think my eyes got cavities. While waiting in line to buy a drink for myself and Q, I managed charm a girl into buying them for me. Melina was her name. I ran into a few people from work who'd ingested some sacred mushrooms, and a few others who were playing it safe, like me. We formed a coalition of the willing; those willing to will not to do drugs. Solidarity. It's a thing I want in my resolve as well as my stools. That reminds me, I'd like to open up a furniture store called Lou's Stools that only sells metamucil.
I need to stop going to dance parties when I can't dance. It's just not as fun casually shimmying and shaking on the dancefloor - a man's got to twerk. Next time I'll come prepared, tripping balls and wearing Miley Cyrus' plastic, flesh-colored underwear.
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