Saturday, July 11, 2009
they only want you when you're seventeen, when your 21, you're no fun.
My 21st 'dinner party' turned into a more-fucked-up-than-most Thursday at NEXT. We recovered slowly throughout the day only for me to pull 'a Hemingway' (read: shot an entire bottle of Southern Comfort, write madly by the Yarra at 4am, and attempt to sleep in my bathtub) Kirra decided to refer to herself as 'the reclining Buddah' and instructed us all to throw money at her. Twenty-ish people were crammed into my small (read: SMALL) aparment. The police came largely due to mine and Kirra's terrible singing. The weekend was not a boring one.
Maybe we should go out tonight?