lamenotlame

So Dave was in town again this weekend (for those not in the know, Dave is a very good, but very platonic friend. My mom wishes it were otherwise, but that probably has a lot to do with the fact that Dave, like myself, has mastered the art of pleasing parents). On Saturday we went dancing b/c Dave’s favorite DJ was playing all night, last night ever for the room before it turns into indie rock or something. Something I never would have been into even a year ago, but to everything there is a season (turn, turn, turn). It was a good time. Some girl puking on the dance floor was a notable lowlight, serving as a reminder of why I hate clubs in the first place. We stayed until the bitter end, sun rising during the cab home. Sunday was grunts and groans and farts, lying around. We did manage to go out for breakfast at some point. The restaurant is a tightly packed place that serves up delicious heaps of food. As I was squeezing my way out from between two tables, I knocked over the basket full of little jams. Dave picked them all up, bless his heart. Then I made another attempt to escape, this time knocking over and smashing a bottle of hot sauce. Damn. Luckily, maybe, the hot sauce was almost empty- between the two of us Dave and I go through a ridiculous amount of hot sauce; particularly if it is that wimpo stuff that is more salt than heat. That is all.