See the title of this blog? Yeah.

I was at a uni function the other night, having decided for a change that spending money on a social function which involved a piss-up was worth it. And oh boy was it worth it. My male lecturers came in silky cocktail dresses. Hawt! Still hasn't cured my unfortunate mad intellectual crushes on them though. It's going to take more than cocks in frocks, apparently.

Some alcohol later, I reeled back home. If you were passing by my bus stop at that time, you may have caught stellar lines such as "Mess up my bed......WIIIIIIIIIIIITTTHHHHH MEEEEEEEEEEEE.......". Interspersed by drunken giggling.)

I woke up (very late) the next morning, finally clear headed for the first time in a while

I'm better off with myself, really.

I was imagining how much more fun I'd be having if it was The Other Cat, the p.w., the Honey Trappers, or SheRunsInStilettoes. And that's when I realized that I'd been subconsciously tying myself into knots trying to be what I'm not to fit in with what I'm not. There's nothing wrong with the people, they’re awfully nice. But they're not my people.

Let me tell you what my people would be like. If SheRunsInStilettoes was with me, an average of five dirty jokes a minute would have been made, the burgers despised, the lecturers charmed, and a job of some sort would have been secured and several extremely important connections made, and some popular chick would be busy sharpening her knife to plant it in SheRunsInStilettoe's back. Because she's just like that.

If The Honey Trappers had been there, we would have flirted outrageously with the boys sitting in front of us, stolen their alcohol, scoped out every single hot young male within ogling distance, skulled our wine, demanded that music be played, flounced off if it wasn’t, hit a hot club, danced on the platform and held a contest to see how many men would could nail by the end of the night, staggering home only when the club closed.

If The Other Cat and the p.w. had been there, a million cigarettes would have been smoked as n offering to the Bitch Goddess of Snark, the beer scorned for better fare, a bar been taken by force, much cock would have been talked, and we would all have reached home in the wee hours of the morning.

I would be taking riding lessons, surf lessons, strip lessons, salsa lessons, driving south just because, and subsisting on wine, cheese and chocolate. I'd be watching independent films and wearing the hell out of my knee-high boots with my very short skirts and ravaging the flea markets and burning holes in the dance floors every week, because the Pussy Posse would do that.

Recent conversations:
Person: "Have you heard Jessica Simpson’s newest song? It's really good!!" (said with no irony at all)

(Regarding another mature age student who just joined the course)
Another Person: "She’s kind of an SPG, isn't she?"
Slinky: (racking brains to recall when the new student last did lapdance on yummy ang mohs and failing) "Erm, why?"
Another Person: "Did you see what she was wearing??"
Slinky: "What, you mean the knee-length skirt and the T-shirt?"
Another Person: "Yeah!"
Slinky [dumbfounded silence]

I don't want to be relegated to sweatshirts and no makeup simply because I'd be viewed with deep suspicion by a 19-year old for wanting to appear less like a sheephand. I don't want to have to understand Jessica "Brains Melted From Peroxide Poisoning" Simpson's music. I don't want to feel like a bloody sheep following the rest of the boring herd. Enough stressing about having a social life; I give up. I'd rather do the Lone Ranger thing.

Having decided that, I'm oddly happier.

6 months down, two months, four years more to go.