Do purple-haired women have more fun?
I put on my fishnets. And my sparkly tights. And my Kenneth Coles. And I rouged my lips. And a clingy black dress (whether or not I achieved "slinky" is anybody's guess).
Mr S arrived, and I wasn't ready. And then we had to wait for the Mster. (which was fine... its flip flop town, nobody is ever on time)
The zinester twins loaned me a wig. I got to see one of them try to disagree with Mr S (resistance is futile, unless you have a bulletproof line of reasoning). After an endless discussion about what to do next, we wandered, via caravan, throught the labyrinthine streets of Seabright to retrieve a dude who was studying for the GRE. He didn't budge. So we continued on our crooked journey to Saturn. We arrived, and everyone made polite and pleasant small talk. Then christopher robin arrived with "jenny" (who, I am sure, stands up to urinate). More pleasant small talk ensued. It was all very nice. Then we went home, and Mr S bolted (he said that he had something very important to read). And the Mster headed off to the post-wig-out party, which I wasn't really in the mood for.
I can hear the crickets, and my sparkly tights are starting to itch. The cold oatmeal is almost gone. There is an unopened bottle of wine in the larder, but I don't think that will satisfy my flirtation deficit. I feel like a character in a Dan Clowes comic, a bundle of silent frustration.