2002-09-22 || 12:40 p.m.

|| but i always make out with the mirrors at parties. ||

friday night: sitting in the living room with brian, our bellies full of his very classy very grown-up very elaborate dinner, our heads a bit light from wine, deciding we really ought to go to the party in the city. flying over the bridge, giggling and hooting, to find the patron saint of parking spots looking kindly upon us. running upstairs and weaving down the hallway to find the dancing mob fogging up windows and pulling down couch pillows. oh the dancing. we developed several new moves, including the floor dancing, the interpretive dancing, the employment of jazz class moves, circa 1988 (make those jazz hands POP! and. you're a rainbow! you're a tree! grand jete to that fatboy slim song, yes!) we danced against door jambs. we danced backs against carpet. the spectacular highpoint/lowpoint was finding the mirror above the mantelpiece, dancing suggestively for our reflections, and (mistakenly) thinking it would be funny as hell to make out with said reflections. as in. french the mirror. so funny! and we did it. like. four times until we decided regrettably that that was a very stupid idea. but we recovered with other moves, such as the poignant interpretation of a slow song whose name escapes me now.

brian got hit on by a lady whose intoxication made her speak with a fake french accent. i got moody over seeing ex-boyfriend dancing on a couch. we both felt a little apprehensive over mirror-frenching party foul 2002, and wrote an apology letter complete with explanatory illustrations.

hooray. love me one brian roommate.

ps. couldn't get over the mirror love sesh after we got home and decided to do it one more time to the mirror in my bedroom. item: two sets of nose/mouth prints, complete with dried ardent licking, which i secretly find rather sexxy.

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