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To Party City, and beyond! A rainbow tutu I was determined to have for this festive day. As predicted, I never made it to Party City, but did procure what seemed to be too inadequate of an amount of green makeup. If Lucille Bluth was not happening, then one of my costume ideas was going to happen!

Happened it did...not until the twenty-first hour of the day, but it still happened. After slothing in the in the university library for no significant number of hours ov'rybeating/apodyopsizing/cursing/mentally fucking myself with/everything libertine under the sun-ning with this university student who was shirtless on the computer in the library. Of the paucity of attractive males of which my alma mater may boast, my lips could have met -- inter alia -- the tellurian be-littered grounds in gratitude for at least one of them baring for the apodyopsizing connoisseurs/trolls/troglodytes/gargoyles/the singlegirlproblems- and coituslessgirlproblems-riddled damsels (and gaymsels too, but damsels more importantly)/all of the above a.k.a. me -- all of whom are subsisting in a grim market of scarcity that not even the world's best, widely-acclaimed economists/economics majors would have been able to touch. The boy with the bod even let me take a picture of him in his full abdominal/toned/dorkswaggerly/centaurian/exhibitionistic beauty. (This moment of photographership was made possible thanks to this one girl who was actually not too timorous to ask if she could capture this rare find. I took his picture and, I mean, can you hear that boom badoom boom boom superbass that is the sound of my ovrybeats coming your way?

He couldn't hear the boom badoom boom boom superbass; he and what seemed to be his girlfriend were busy embracing, intimating, and caressing each other. Gross; he should have been doing such activities with me, damn it. When it wasn't her, then it was his other girlfriend: his paper. An incomplete form is getting more action than I. #singlegirlproblems

Reverting to my compensatory ways of olde, I took to the stacks for close encounters -- with books. I left a pile of them atop one of the desks embedded in the crannies of the stacks, should I return inebriated just in time ere the doors close. Since "local" Part city stores had no more rainbow tutus for my costume, I just traveled to Walgreens in the hopes that there at least would be green hairspray or some sort of green helmet to mask my hair. Fortune shown upon me, for there was also a fuschia-colored tutu there which, though "unisize" and designed for three-and-ups, actually fit me in spite of the seeds of doubt that had been planted!

Back to the library I went to use one of its restrooms as a Batcave of sorts. Though not without the befuddled/affrighted stare similar to that of one watching an apocalyptic unraveling before his/her eyne, there were quite a number of people who stopped and tore the antisocial walls/DMZ asunder to ask what my costume was and to proffer words of acclamation. This made me proud to be associated with this institution -- though I am a distanced and distancing alumnus though relations with a current could totally lasso me back "home" ;).

My destination, however, was not the library; it was a bar some ten miles north. Being one who takes public transportation, this converts to a three-ish-block walk to the bus stop; a five-minute wait for the bus; a transfer to the train; an eight-minute wait at an outdoor station in the middle of the expressway for the train to arrive (thank you, oh Good Lord, for the one day-early operation of the heat lamps); and the approximately five-minute walk to the bar itself -- all in 40-degree weather scantily clad in a tutu that was shorter than Nair's short shorts...and a thin tee (I had no jacket or jeans on because of the green makeup with which I had painted myself). I thought about how providential it would be if I were to escape pneumonia after tonight, and thankfully my friend actually answered her phone (no, my friend is not imaginary) and talking to her helped.

I was on my way to Homosburg. Yes, I am actually giving the gays a cent/peso of my fortune or lack thereof. Anyway, though I dreaded arriving at the stop (not that the inside of the train itself was cozy at all), I knew that at the end of the proverbial tunnel was an intoxicating fishbowl -- and hopefully a decent-sized pool of one-night-friend potentials with whom to pass the entire night (or at least until two). At least the former -- the more indispensable one -- was true and happened. It also, however, led to the erasure of no small portions of the night. With gaps wider than that between the 1% and the lowliest of the 99%, my memory has managed to retain walking up the street with a Hispanic their car; freezing my mammaries off; being struck in the head from behind by some ruffianly blacks; breaking the screen to my SLR; apparently resting in the lobby of a Hyatt Regency; waking up at the end of a bus route; and patronizing a McDonald's until the opening of the library.

What the Bahfuckinghumbug. I at least like how I look in my costume, though. Can I take on this form permanently?
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January 2013

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