FRIDAY NIGHTS AND JERSEY GIRLS: A SATURDAY NIGHT (PART 3)

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FRIDAY NIGHTS AND JERSEY GIRLS (PART 2)

Welcome back, you might have joined me again for one of two reasons, one, you wanted to see if you were mentioned or two, you actually enjoyed the story. Either way, enjoy :D

My father slipped me a twenty and I was on my way to Bruce's, despite a slight navigational mishap (missed a roundabout turn) I was quite content with how tonight was going. Whilst Bruce chewed my ear off with parental and life difficulties, where I would throw my opinion or just a nod or a 'yeah, I know' into the mix, I was thinking about how good my night would be. With Bruce there, I knew my parents would be downing alcohol like a prized pig at a redneck carnival. The noise would hit such heights that I'd probably be complaining to you or whoever I could find online. I found myself now not dredding tonight and I was extremely happy with the peanut chicken satay I made for dinner and was pleased with the tasty result and thinking I might try crunchy peanut butter rather than smooth next time.

Gluttony; thy name is Thai

FRIDAY NIGHTS AND JERSEY GIRLS (PART 1)

The following is a series of extracts from emails I've sent to a good friend of mine. Name's have been changed for protection of the innocent:
So where to begin?

Well, my friday night's have tended to go one way or another, being alone or being with friends, but this entire week had been like that. My social mode had kicked into some sort of warped degree that I was expecting to wake up by the end of the week as some form of socialised mutant who's lust for conversing would not only quench my thirst but turn me even to a greater malformed creature. But luckily that didn't happen or hasn't happened...yet

Earlier during the week, Monday, I had lied to M about attending the Full Moon Drumming, claiming, oh I'll be with a friend in Sydney and her reaction was more or less 'Laaaaaaaaaaameeee', a sentiment which she used often if I had backed out or had mention something that was, indeed, lame. M, for those joining the delusionally narcissistic TV show that is my life, is a friend who's coloured hair, piercings and use of the word 'babe' had begun to be a breath of fresh air, which would ostensibly be taken away after the light of a cigarette; a common hobby for those with the aforementioned metal-in-the-face and chemicals-in-the-hair. She bit me. We are now friends.

My actual arm, her actual bite. My actual stupidity.