If memory serves, I attended a Hallowe’en party at Jacob (aka "the Professor") and Kelly’s place last night. It was a wonderful evening, due in large part to the generosity and good vibes of our hosts, who rock without parallel.
The party was well-stocked with good things to eat, drink, and smoke, which softened the edges of the evening into a pleasant blur. I traded political barbs with Abraham Lincoln; I caught up on the latest gossip with a coven of sultry witches; I took turns peeing in a sumptuous bathroom with a blue-winged fairy. I may even have been tied up by a priest, but I’m not entirely sure.
After a quick nightcap at the local diner, I staggered home to await the onset of a colossal hangover. It came, surely enough, at 9:00 AM, when a sorry excuse for a man decided to idle his motorcycle directly in front of my bedroom window. Suddenly awake, I cursed the man, the motorcycle, and God, whom I imagined was punishing me for engaging in S/M with a man of the cloth. Undeterred, the motorcycle rumbled loudly on.
My temples throbbing, I pulled the covers up over my head to block out the noise and light. The cats took this as an invitation to play cat and mouse with my face, which they proceeded to do with great vigour. In desperation, I slid further under the covers and assumed the fetal position, whereupon I willed myself to lose consciousness, by suffocation if necessary.
After what seemed like an eternity, the man and the motorcycle roared away, and I fell gratefully back to sleep. In my dreams, the motorcycle man was beaten senseless by a blue-winged fairy, and officially pronounced dead by Abe Lincoln. Serves the bastard right...