Chinablack

At the end of a long clubbing session, its always good to have a warm little body, breathing softly at your feet, under the covers.
That was my doggie I was talking about mind you.

Status? My liver is stressed, kidneys overworked, intestines flipped, brain overloaded and spirit overdosed.

But I'm still alive. Alive enough to be penning these thoughts down before they vanish.*
Inspiration comes at strange times of the day.

Contrary to popular belief. I am not a chiong-ster. Honest.
I just happen to love dancing, and am able to hold down my drink.

Sometimes I wonder why people go clubbing. Most times it ends up as a "vulture-fest" (nuff said there).
The rest of us, come up with seeming "nobler" excuses of just wanting to dance. It could possibly stem from our closet exhibitionist selves; our hidden repressed alter egos who are fed up of having a solo audience in front of the mirror, and are finally willing to subject members of the public to our spontaneous bopping.

Thank you Jack Daniels.

But as clean as everyone (well at least a small handful) wants it to be, you can't deny the potential emotional and physical minefield in the labyrinths of a club. And if we recoil at the thought of walking through the minefields of cambodia, why are we still taking huge strides through this social jungle, when the mines keep blowing up in our faces?

The common excuse: I'm young. This won't last forever.
Damn right about that.

But I won't live till very long if I keep up with this.
Meanwhile its detox sunday.

*scribbled right after I got back. posted the next morning.