Fuck the Blog
It's been a typical Thursday night. I went out. I drank. I danced. I came home. I played darts. I checked the computer. I'll eventually park my hairy ass in bed, and tomorrow, which only happens after I've gone to sleep, Friday comes.
I was originally planning on attending Dream Man. See, we (SigEp, that is) sent our best Aryan specimen to the stage, so that he could be ogled by hundreds of girls, many possibly in heat. That, readers, is a dangerous mission. I don't think there's anything deadlier than a girl in heat. You never know when she'll attack you. A brother could be standing at a party, innocently sipping his less-than-proficient beer, when a gaping, wet pussy attacks him and drags him away to lord-knows-where. Occasionally, a scream or a gasp betrays his whereabouts, but nothing is heard of him until the next morning, when he stumbles out into the unforgiving light, squinting and rubbing his raw crotch. There's nothing left of his night but tortured dreams and the occasional panty or bra.
Dangerous, indeed. But, our Aryan's pretty buff, so I wasn't too worried about him. I did want to see him kick ass, so I headed down to the Bone Center where this hedonistic display of hard flesh was to take place. I probably should've stopped at the SigEp house, like I was told, to meet up with other brothers, but I thought I was running late so I just went straight to the Bone.
Bad decision. I sat in the lobby, looking like a total fucktard, until I got it into my head that it probably cost money to get into Dream Man. I don't have any money, so I took my fucktard ass back home.
Luckily, M. paged me and asked me if I wanted to go bar-hopping. I'm always game for a night of whoring my sorry ass out.
We first went to Elroys. Remember, I had no money, so therefore, I had no drinks. No drinks makes for a very boring bar experience. I decided it would be best to retire to the second floor, where I happened to bump into W. W is one of my cooler brothers. He's Marine, who's eventually going to become an Army grunt. Hoo-rah and all that. W. and I bullshitted (we were both sober) for a bit, then headed over to the balcony edge to look at the teeming masses. I fucking love looking at the people whirling their mad lives and huddling against each other in order to hide from the massive mounds of sexual energy pulsating like a bad techno beat. That, folks, is the ultimate microcosm of Colligate life. In this corner, you have the gyrating girls going dyke in hopes of attracting the rich snob, who is currently talking to the blonde, model-wannabe, who is being ogled by the fat, old man sitting next to the punk kids trying to figure out what the abercrombie-whore next to them sees in the vapid yuppie trying desperately to hit on the bartender's popping breasts. And, they all merge together and flow like a Monet. Here's some colours. Here's some skin. Here's some dancing. Here's some living. Here's some being.
And, there's me standing, wondering who's fucking, who will be fucking, and who will be walking the streets of Bloomington looking for an angry fuck/fix.
Baby, welcome to the bar. Enjoy your stay and don't trip over the passed-out wants.
W., M., and I tired of the meat-market scene and decided to hit 110. 110 is our Hicktown dance club. I dance lightly over the term "dance club." It's more of fuck-with-your-clothes-on club than a dance club, but I digress. As usual, I did my dance thang, got some numbers, and hit the cold road home.
To Thursday.
I was originally planning on attending Dream Man. See, we (SigEp, that is) sent our best Aryan specimen to the stage, so that he could be ogled by hundreds of girls, many possibly in heat. That, readers, is a dangerous mission. I don't think there's anything deadlier than a girl in heat. You never know when she'll attack you. A brother could be standing at a party, innocently sipping his less-than-proficient beer, when a gaping, wet pussy attacks him and drags him away to lord-knows-where. Occasionally, a scream or a gasp betrays his whereabouts, but nothing is heard of him until the next morning, when he stumbles out into the unforgiving light, squinting and rubbing his raw crotch. There's nothing left of his night but tortured dreams and the occasional panty or bra.
Dangerous, indeed. But, our Aryan's pretty buff, so I wasn't too worried about him. I did want to see him kick ass, so I headed down to the Bone Center where this hedonistic display of hard flesh was to take place. I probably should've stopped at the SigEp house, like I was told, to meet up with other brothers, but I thought I was running late so I just went straight to the Bone.
Bad decision. I sat in the lobby, looking like a total fucktard, until I got it into my head that it probably cost money to get into Dream Man. I don't have any money, so I took my fucktard ass back home.
Luckily, M. paged me and asked me if I wanted to go bar-hopping. I'm always game for a night of whoring my sorry ass out.
We first went to Elroys. Remember, I had no money, so therefore, I had no drinks. No drinks makes for a very boring bar experience. I decided it would be best to retire to the second floor, where I happened to bump into W. W is one of my cooler brothers. He's Marine, who's eventually going to become an Army grunt. Hoo-rah and all that. W. and I bullshitted (we were both sober) for a bit, then headed over to the balcony edge to look at the teeming masses. I fucking love looking at the people whirling their mad lives and huddling against each other in order to hide from the massive mounds of sexual energy pulsating like a bad techno beat. That, folks, is the ultimate microcosm of Colligate life. In this corner, you have the gyrating girls going dyke in hopes of attracting the rich snob, who is currently talking to the blonde, model-wannabe, who is being ogled by the fat, old man sitting next to the punk kids trying to figure out what the abercrombie-whore next to them sees in the vapid yuppie trying desperately to hit on the bartender's popping breasts. And, they all merge together and flow like a Monet. Here's some colours. Here's some skin. Here's some dancing. Here's some living. Here's some being.
And, there's me standing, wondering who's fucking, who will be fucking, and who will be walking the streets of Bloomington looking for an angry fuck/fix.
Baby, welcome to the bar. Enjoy your stay and don't trip over the passed-out wants.
W., M., and I tired of the meat-market scene and decided to hit 110. 110 is our Hicktown dance club. I dance lightly over the term "dance club." It's more of fuck-with-your-clothes-on club than a dance club, but I digress. As usual, I did my dance thang, got some numbers, and hit the cold road home.
To Thursday.
posted by Jon at 8:03 AM
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