blowing off some steam
Sometimes you’re just having a bad week.
Maybe you’ve been working twelve-hour days, racing against a deadline and fighting a debugging tool. Maybe you’ve been shut up in a closet-like office, cut off from the world, bored stiff because you can’t get any work done but can’t just go home, either. Or maybe, for reasons that won’t be recorded here, Life Has Just Got You Down.
Friday rolls around and you’re feeling cooped up and antsy. So you start sending text messages from under the table, in the parking lot up on the Hill, during dinner with your roommate, sitting in your cube. Plans are made, and a good thing, too. You need to get out.
You straggle into the Tortoise. You commiserate over a pitcher, blowing off some steam. Maybe you belt out a few songs. You start to unwind.
Later on, as the night progresses, you find yourself at the house of a gay man in NoPo, walking on hardwood floors made sticky from spilled drinks, tapping a keg. You mingle with assorted frat boys, College Republicans, past members of the student Senate, a former homecoming queen. You eat a handful of cake with your fingers.
One of you will wear a pair of oversized black sunglasses.
Time passes, and you’re sitting in a Volvo in the drive-thru lane of a Jack in the Box on Powell. You are talking about vaginas at the top of your lungs for some reason. Although some of you have to work in the morning, you’re enjoying yourself too much to not pop in for a glass of wine and more hysterical conversation.
The next day you feel a little tired out, which is not surprising considering the time you finally called it a night. You can always sleep that off later, though.
You really needed that.
(Special thanks to Sibyl for the use of her bitchin’ photos.)
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