My best friend, JC, came to visit for the weekend. As was the case the last time I visited him in Boston, my uterus has been doing its damdest to escape from the warm, normally friendly confines of my lower abdomen (i.e., I have wicked cramps), so my mood hasn't been the sunniest. The near-constant rain has meant that my hair is all frizzy, too, but I put on my now-infamous Pat-Sajak-meeting blouse and took him to a going-away party for my friend Brian. Of course, the night when I'm in pain and have frizzy hair (though my gay friends said my tits looked amazing) is also the night when Brian's friend Phillippe Cousteau comes by. He's pretty and less gay in person. I was just like, oh, fuck, whatever, let's get to the next party so I can drink. We did, and I did. We had dinner with a bunch of friends, us hard-core ones went to another bar where we were officially annoyed by the preppy douchebag vibe and then ditched Brian's after party because of our inability to take anymore douchebaggery. JC and I finished drinking at my place, which is cheaper anyway.
Today, we went to Mount Vernon. I've never been, weirdly enough. It's pretty. It's also expensive and overly reverential and steeped too much in the big-man school of historical philosophy, but at least we didn't get rained on. Tonight, we're eating some yummy food and drinking a bunch of wine. Then I have to sit and do some more work tomorrow. But, in the mean time, here's the thing that cracked us the fuck up this afternoon.