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Don't Call Me Kevie

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Life. Love. Arithmatic
Am getting ready to go out and paint the town.. well, maybe not red, but a pinkish hue of fun. A friend and her boyfriend have quit their jobs to backpack around Europe for a while, so we're going out for one last hurrah.

Starsky and Hutch still has me in a fit of giggles, and I may have overloaded on Rasberry bullets today, so I'm feeling rather mellow and zen with the world and it's strange ways. Whilst getting ready I decided to go for the comfy underpants instead of the "good" undies as I am confident no one will try to get into them tonight. Not because I'm still on that downer I was on earlier this week (I think I'm over the crest of that.) but because of two main reasons. First off I have shaved my legs. Secondly, my period isn't due for another 3 days. These might sound strange reasons to think you won't get picked up (if anything, shaven legs are usually quite condusive to sex, and whatnot. You've gotta enjoy the whatnot), but 'tis sadly true. Whenever I have had a man lusting after me - okay, that was too far. Let me start again. Whenever I have been lucky enough to be dancing with a guy when the lights go on at the pub I usually haven't shaved for two weeks, and I'm at my period zenith. I think this is partly because since I haven't shaved I'm pretty much in a low-key kinda mood, ready for anything and everything, and partly due to whatever-mones (I can't spell the word, so I won't torture you with bad spelling) wafting under my Calvin Klein "Forever".

So tonight I'm just going out drinking and dancing. I've got the bathroom kitted out(bath towel in front of the toilet for kneeling on when I need to drive the porcilan bus, with a bottle of water, a face washer and some Asprin in easy reach), bottles of water stragetically placed around the room - all at floor level, some burgers in the fridge for when I get home, and for the next day when all your stomach can handle is grease on grease, with grease of the side of a plate of salt, and more Pepsi Max than you could poke a stick at, and the berocca sitting on my bedside table.

This may sound like a lot of work to go to (and I admit it takes me more time to set up for the morning-after hangover than it does for me to get dressed to go out), but in the morning I will be everso grateful. The towel on the bathroom floor is a lovely touch, and can also turn into a pillow at a moments notice. And like most things - I find the more effort I put into making the morning after as comfortable a hell to be in as possible, the less likely it is I shall be hungover.

I haven't been out dancing for ages. Other than that wedding, but I was wearing girly shoes that weren't that dance-able. It's gonna be fun.