New neighbour-friends and I went out dancing last night. It's been way too long (since...early September, I think) and if you didn't know, dancing and I, we have a thing. It's awesome and we are in love. Sometimes dancing does extra-special things that lets me know our passion is true, like play Whigfield's Saturday Night.
Oh, and the lobby had a couch swing. Unfortunately it only had about a metre of leeway so no matter how hard I pumped my legs it wasn't going much of anywhere. (I really tried!)
Now if only the weather was club clothes appropriate (no, not the other way around).
3AM shawarma, oh I've missed you so!
You need to stop. In fairness, some of you are sweet, but the others... You know which ones you are and you need to stop. Trying to tug my hand up as I go down the stairs is not going to make me follow you to the washroom for god knows what. (God knows!) Smacking my rear as I walk by is not going to suddenly fill me with desire for you. Here's a little secret too: stomping on your foot with my stiletto may have looked like an accident...it wasn't. You just seemed incapable of understanding every other signal that was to deter you from grinding your business on me. Including saying "stop" and us leaving the area - to hide from you, you creepy stalker. Men, I can only assume between this and the drunken compliments, ignoring my friends, awkward shoulder hugs and attempts to kiss me you thought you were some sort of Night At the Roxbury charming. Not a real thing, sorry.
Please...suck less. You do your gender no favours.
I am still a litlle flabbergasted at the excessive hitting-on that took place. Much beyond the usual. Seriously, I went out with a glamazon and her sister and I got 99% of the attention (1% margin of error). Glamazon. The amount was more than enough for, say ten people or three sluts. Also, since they're the ones that would actually like that; I ended up feeling a little bad. Which is ridiculous.