Thank Jebus, the car is not as bad as we were told it was. On my mail-checking excursion the other night, I desparately wanted to find some trouble to get into. I had a full tank of gas, a purse full of cash, and I felt the need for speed, baby. There were visions of drunken debauchery dancing in my head. I wanted loud music. I wanted flashing lights. I wanted to drive through St. John's while hanging out the sunroof topless (alas, only my imaginary car has a sunroof, and only my imaginary St. John's is warm enough to drive through while hanging out the sunroof topless). I wanted to do shots of Screech with Portuguese sailors at The Pic while a pregnant stripper with a cast on her leg gave me a clumsy lapdance. I wanted to get a tattoo of Hot Stuff the Little Devil and hepatitis C at The Black Rose. I wanted to wake up the next morning on the vomit soaked floor of a penthouse suite wearing a french maid's uniform and a rainbow-striped afro clown wig.
Ok, fine, I don't actually want to have a typical-stud-party-gone-wrong movie moment. But, I do want to have some fun, even just a wee bit. Maybe just the drunken toplessness?