Wild, wild night.
Would you believe me if I told you:
That tonight I hung out with one of the random kids I met last night at the Of Montreal show and watched a Christmas Tree Burning on the beach that featured a streaker and fire dancers?
That I then tagged along with them to this punk show in the Mission where loads of people was moshing topless?
That at the show I met the girl who had been the cause of the rampant toplessness (leading by example and peer pressure to join her)?
That I, lady-killing I, after being stripped from the waist up by her, was able to convince her to go along with me to another locale?
That when I offered to buy her the shot of her choice, she requested that I just give that money to her so she could buy a cheeseburger?
That even though she claimed she was engaged, we briefly kissed on the lips, and when we did I noticed her breath stank?
That as we walked aimlessly arm-in-arm down the street, we stumbled into a random house party because they were playing Prince on the stereo system?
That she then proceeded to dance lewdly (and toplessly, again) with the birthday girl and then do cocaine in a backroom?
That sometime past midnight I submitted to peer pressure and received a bare-bottomed flogging, and still felt like I was being a prude?
That I then used a randomly found feather boa as a dancing prop?
That around 5 A.M. I got tired of trying to hook up with her yet still remain gentlemanly and keep her from getting into compromising situations with other guys who wouldn't be as paradoxically silver-tongued and sincere with her?
That she actually told me her real name?
That it's almost 7 A.M. now and I'm writing this?
No? Well, I wouldn't believe me either.
That's why I got the polaroids to prove it.
Only in San Francisco. This is one fucking loose city.