Tags: dating | expat life | partying

Been falling over and calling through, getting into this nightlife from a distance now...

Everything has gone into syndication, and the dancers have all become a secondary feature.

The girls are still fun and the boys still don't interest me, but there is something lacking, imagination, consideration, respect - it just seems impure. It may have been the tattoos, perhaps the lust for life or the utter ignorance of the death factor. It was, in part, the accent, another part of the body. It was, as a whole, a lot less than I bargained for.

Her name is irrelevant, but her presence certainly is not. She's the type who fascinates immediately, but you don't know exactly why. There was all that strength and maybe even intelligence; though, looking back, it was merely the kind of character that only impresses on the initial impact.

The aftertaste is a gaudy recollection of pothead philosophy and drug-fueled glee. She would be of the school that believes the chemistry she indulged in was a validation of life. Uh-huh. I was caught up in it too. It's all just dumb spiralling when you sum up, it's just that some spirals have a greater circumference at the top and it feels like a collective of revolutions void of resolutions.

Well, whatever she's all about, we're at some kind of gathering of hipsters, little toughs and big toughs, decked out in all the latest fashion - either updated track suits with a good deal of alien logos and hot brand names in cool fonts or pricey skank attire to put out that profound signal of caring about appearance by not caring about appearance.

Coloured hair, shaved heads, rockin facial hair, babysmooth visages. So much flesh. Legs, tits, asses, bellies, tattoos, piercings, brandings, makeup, natural, sweet, sweet sweat.

Right, so she's going for it, I'm going for it, trying unsuccessfully to put my appearance out of my mind. Does a lanky, shaved head, unadorned figure in a 'Brewing Up with Billy Bragg' tee, khakis and Docs really belong in this scene? After a while, however, when everything got all Hunter Thompson, it didn't really matter. The drugs not only took hold, they clutched, squeezed and tore up the A/V. I talked with people, they talked with me, or so it seemed.

She was among the people, somewhere, and we somehow ended up going back to my place or hers.

The process became pattern: dealing with work-a-day crap, an hour or so of second-wind-catching, deciding on some kind of action, fueling up, going going f*cking going for it man, crash, and deal once more. Makes you feel real heroic for a while, that you've risen above all that average crust, that the days and nights you rave through and endure contain something more wonderful and more special than the days and nights of your fellow public-transit users and pedestrians.

You feel more alive, with a greater purpose, closer to the purpose of it all. It especially hit me on the metro. Watching fellow passengers, all of them sallow and props, with the requisite exceptions and the smouldering tightly-wrapped heroines of persistent longings, I felt like I knew something that none of them did; however, I still can't figure out what it is.

Then it starts to seem as routine as the average 9-5 workday weekend warrior weekly shag rut. State and public holidays vs. every day holidays. The fascination with the background at these amp-driven get-togethers slips away - the same high, the same moves, closed-eye, pucker-lipped, superstar posturing and recline. The same bullsh*t covered with different words. I've been there and I'll be back, just for the hell of it, because there's nothing better to do.

Nice one. Geezer. Rave on through until your mouth is dry.