Burn the bikinis

So.

I've daydreamed about Zoukout during some of my more boring lectures to get me through the week while suffering the curse of homesickness, imagining the ruthless swathe which the Honey Trappers would cut through the hapless amateur partygoers on Sentosa. I've bought cute new bikinis to pad out my Zoukout potential wardrobe. Almost all summery skanky purchases which have been made this year have been made with the thought in the back of my head, "Hmm, that would be awesome for Zoukout with my little bikini". No conversation between the other Honey Trappers have passed without some reference to the hallowed event. Last night, I actually paraded in front of my bedroom mirror, modeling potential Zoukout outfits in the hopes of narrowing it down to the final contender. Tonight, in the cab, we said, hats! and I thought that leather cowboy hat I had would finally get an event worthy of it. Zoukout is my talismanic symbol of all the fun I did not get to have while I am stuck in the arsehole of Oz. It's the ultimate fuck you to the general sadness I feel when I think of all the things I miss out on when I'm not here.

And then I find out that because of that bloody trip to bloody Japan, I can't go.

Instead of little bikinis and short shorts, I will be swaddled in five layers of clothes in temperatures hovering just below freezing, just when I had come out of my first msierable winter. Instead of pounding bass, I will be listening to idiotic kawaii commercials and faced with urban city neon lights instead of strobes and lasers. Just fucking great.