Strange things are afoot.
About an hour ago I left work to meet up with people and make fun of M.E., who is currently standing outside the Thompson Center wearing a white spandex onesie with a blaring iron on transfer image of Eliza Dushku. She's wandering amidst a sea of snowy mannequins and other unitarded models, handing out chocolates for an official Fox promotion for the opening of Dollhouse tonight.
So we pointed and laughed. Took pictures.
"You couldn't pay me to do that," Sookie shakes her head.
"Dude, she's getting paid a lot to do it, and you know she's gonna walk out of all this with a new girl to mess around with. Because if anyone can pick up chicks in a silkscreened spandex onesie, it's M.E."
"I don't think I could pick up anyone in a white spandex onesie."
Rob just laughs. I think he's uncomfortable, after hearing Gyna and I talking about how ridiculous things are right now.
According to Gyna, "Dude, you and I had the wierdest conversation last night. I can't imagine what someone listening in would have thought. Threesomes gone terribly awry, cripples being nice to us, shocking heterosexuality. She was holding hands with a boy! I was freaking out!"
"Well, we did suspect that she was trying to be straight now."
"I know, but still! So wierd. I have Teen Wolf scratches all over me from crazy car make out. We're going to spend Valentine's Day at the VFW--"
"Yes: VFW Valentines. Surrounded by men in mullets, fanny packs, and fake white trash teeth. Best. Saturday. Ever."
"It is going to be so hot."
"You know it."
"But still. Our lives are weird. Aren't our lives weird? That this is the norm?"
Thinking about it, I am in the middle of trying to reconcile our friends' love lives using naught but the awesome power of my thumbs and witty, deprecating text messages. And we're going to be in the worlds largest pie fight. Ideally, pie fights should be impromptu, but this will have to do. I get paid to save children and sometimes to sing with a karaoke band (March 7th, bitches).
I'm riding a train to New Orleans to work at a soup kitchen and maybe sneak into the Tennessee Williams literary festival which should be bad ass (because I am broke, and a dork, and just want to wander up to a strange gorgeous man and gasp with gloom and hunger: "Straight? What's straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the heart of a human being?"). I've really been having crazy dreams lately, which means things are normal, because my dreams are usually fucked up.
Gorilla-centaurs and eating the sun and the like.
Now, reading that, it doesn't really sound fascinating. Maybe it was just the conversation that we had. Anything sounds interesting when you say it with enough gusto.