Last Sunday night, I went to watch Charles and some of the boys play at Brickworks. It was an evening of cherubs with indie haircuts and boys who unintentionally emulate Bob Dylan. It was a night of jokes about Adam Smith and Calvinism that were appreciated by all--but went right over my head. It was a time when I started to realize that my university days are drawing to a close--and that's not entirely a good thing.
Hey, look! It's Sasha. I haven't seen her for 8 months. And hey, it's our new friend Chris! Hi, Chris! Thanks for overlooking our social awkwardness and eating bread pudding at House on Parliament with us!
The night ended with dancing on the dock to keep warm in defense of the evening's condensation.
The day after being terrified by my first masthead meeting of the year, was spent in the sun on Gould Street.
It was Club's Day. And let me tell you, things that are not fun: trying attract volunteers to a relatively unknown student publication, all the while yelling over the pounding music of two student groups trying to outdo the other with excessively high auditory levels of their equally horrid ethnic music.
Canice was sitting across the street, hitting on cute boy bike messengers. I, meanwhile, was attempting to defend feminism to the few people who stopped at my table. (I copped out of most of these arguments by claiming that I couldn't hear my attacker's arguments--which was entirely true. My ears were ringing.)
And tonight is Ashley's 24th birthday (we're both part of the old journalism ladies club). I'm celebrating the last few homework sparse moments by drinking Superwine. (Vodka + Crappy Fake Wine = Superwine! It's pretty much every parent's dream.) Because nothing says a party like Superwine.