the underground club

Friday night caught me too tired. I took a nap starting at 8 and woke up at 1:44 am, too late to go to a club, as in freakin' Toronto last call for alcohol is at freakin' 2 am. So I went to the local bar, then to an underground (after hours) club.

It’s awesome to have a blog where you could go off a tangent when tired or whatever. I came back from a club and there seems to be a party in the staircase leading back to where I’ll be crashing. There’s alcohol everywhere, everybody is trying to get me drunk because despite all the abuse and chemicals mostly alcohol), my brain is still capable of getting me to jump up 3 stairs at a time.

I have a huge problem: I seldom get drunk. Everybody I meet is trying to fix it, but I resist. I usually pretend to be drunk, though I’m not. Women can tell.

A lot of snoring in my dorm, but I don’t care. The underground after-hours club I went to is stuffed with happy black people. A black girl brought me in. She knew the password, but it wasn’t actually necessary – all you had to do was to pay; I paid $10 for both of us. Inside, you pay $5 for a drink, which can be either some weird punch or a very small dose of beer. I go with the beer.

I dance on reggae, I strike up a conversation with a Chinese girl who turned out to be way too obsessed with volunteering for mothers, and then my date brings some weed.

In Paris she used to do PR, but here in Toronto she can’t, so she’s working in a coffee shop and volunteering for a music drums festival. Her name is Svrn and her middle name is L Quiche. I don’t

..oh, fuck it

The girls on the staircase are from Indiana. One has lived in China for 2 yrs since 16, she’s 19 now. She’s from the middle of nowhere. Tomorrow they’re going to Niagara. I’m not.

Cracanel, club, going out