but this is the elton john version, not the moulin rouge.

as dreamallday would say...

dear internet journal:

tonight we went to hell. or it may have been st. paul. or maybe it was hell.
no hard feelings or offense meant to anyone involved. but. oh. my. god.
there are bars where i'm comfortable, and bars where i'm uncomfortable. and then there was this bar. my a.d.d. and any kind of anxiety i might have, would be totally set off by this place on any normal night. but tonight, tonight was the special hell. with two pianists at top volume (and by top, i mean unable to hold a converstation with the person next to you top) singing and playing requests. this meant grease. this meant neil diamond. this meant garth brooks. all done poorly. and at. top. volume. and so we left. and i'm sorry for the people we were trying to hang out with that we're not more socially flexible these days. i have a lot of potential reasons for this in my head. but a bar full of jocks and slutty women (as a generalization) with too many large tv's and a bad overly loud lounge act? was not what i could handle.

so we went to lyle's for the last hour of bar time. and now my shoulders aren't up around my ears. and the cute waitress there, jackie, is the cutest best thing ever. she makes my night every time we see her. because she is cute and hillarious and i always tip her better than good.

i could babble about comfort zones and culture and gender and sexual identity and a whole lot of other things. like the possibility of phone posts, and beer walruses, and cute girls. but i won't. because i had three drinks in less than an hour, and now i just want a veggie sandwich.
oy. too much, yo. too much.