let's just keep singin'

It’s really a bad sign when the first thing that you see upon walking into the club is an old man in a suit dancing like he was once Michael Jackson. Bad, I tell you. And not in the good sense.

Regardless, the night was good. It was nice to have most of the people that meant something to me be there, dancing their fool asses off like their momma taught them how to shake it at an early age. I wish more people had been there—but it was a solid group. Very much so. Also, it’s nice to let go to the music and just move the way that the beats invisibly manipulate your body.

They played Murder on the Dance Floor and we all danced like we knew the moves. People looked at us like we were on something [that they wish they had a piece of]—but it wasn’t as bad as the time they played Dragostea. Then, we were strangers in a familiar land.

Later on, we had planned to go to Rendezvous, but they cheated us and closed an hour earlier than they were supposed to. Poor Jack Ho has never smoked hookah and now he’ll have to wait a few more months before he gets a chance to try it on American soil—hopefully he will discover that over the summer in Hong Kong. Furthermore, we learned that Thomson likes the ladies to not only say his name, but to SPELL it also.

We said goodbye outside of STA. The price of a one-way ticket to Rio distracted me and it seemed just right to be saying goodbye to these people standing in front of a list of inexpensive flights to every corner of the world. Because you never know which continent you’ll be saying hello in next. Right?


No entry fee for the ladies.
Dollar long islands.
Dollar rum & cokes.
Minors [not] drinking underage.
Bad music [read: shitty dj].
Good friends.
Half a burrito from Pancheros.
T-H-O-M S-O-N!!!
Mo……Mo!




P.S. Tonight, I had the opportunity to meet the guy from the original Bachelorette, but I gladly declined. He wrote some book about… getting over his anxiety disorder—and he flipped out and made sure that EVERYONE and their momma knew that he’d written this book. It got to the point where it was pathetic and we decided that we knew exactly why Trista, or Trisha, whatever her name is, kicked him off the show as fast as she had. If he had better fashion sense, and never spoke, then yes, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad for him to have been hanging around the tables tonight. But… yeah.