I was a happy thief. I had the Futureheads playing and I’d eaten almost an entire bag of something called Milkfuls, which I picked up at the airport to stave off depression. I was dancing about, this close to picking up a hairbrush and singing into it, while drying off from my shower, (I’ve never actually tried the hairbrush thing, do people actually do that?), and collecting my bits and pieces for my nights costume. I’ll take my shoes off and throw them in the lake. Brian was on his way to collect me, there were only three kids in chat, and the sun was still shining.
Now I’m aching. It’s three a.m., there’s bruises beginning on my legs, I have the beginnings of a headache, and I look like a goth. I’m hoping things are better in the morning. Least now I’m home I can play good music. Somebody close to Isaac, smack him please. Thanks. It was fun, but not worth the price of ticket.
Elaine was there with Spike, who has thankfully extinguished her cancer. I was glad to see them, but I’m not sure it’s really the sort of venue we’re going to be comfortable together in. I’m too likely to end up wandering away when people are playing to hold a conversation properly. I didn’t like how sticky tacky the lilac vinyl sheets were on the beds, but I was keen to dance. Shake a little bit of tailfeather and all that. Regretfully, it didn’t seem to help dispel this black nasty frustration that I seem to have caught on the plane as if it were a cold. Next week’s SinCity will prove to be better. It’s a more welcoming atmosphere and a nicer crowd. Familiar faces will swarm abound next Saturday. If I can keep my friends from touching me this week, then it should be good. I should be able to endure cuddles without wanting to kill.
