Feeling: Sniffly- why does she keep her apartment at 55 degrees?
Listening to: John Mayer - Neon
Reading/Watching: Georgette Heyer- These Old Shades

Went out with Bri, and clomped around First Friday a bit (it's a place downtown where a bunch of warehouses deck themselves inside and out with the work of fledgling artists, and you walk around buying food and jewelry from vendors, looking at art, and if you're especially captivated, you buy it).

I consider myself a moderate art appreciator. But after thirty minutes or so of perusing three buildings' collections, we decided it was time to go. Some of the photography was very bright and caused a knee-jerk uplifting reaction, much like the colors in Dali's Paysage aux papillons, but a lot of it really seemed like people saying "watch me comb through the dregs of my tortured soul."

Not so much into that, thank you. Plus, you can only look at so many soulful black-and-whites of crumbling missions before you curse your gringa blood and want to go hunting around for some damn roots. Either that, or take a swift hammer to the forebrain.

We got dinner. Briana's knees were hurting her, so we decided all activities should require being seated from then on.

We spent an inordinate amount of time in the restaurant, trying to ignore the odiously loud (and falsely enthusiastic) waiter, and then I grabbed an overnight bag, my laundry, we bought some fuzzy posters and a set of 30 markers, and stayed up until nearly 3 (note the time), listening to Dashboard and Matt Caplan (I'm indoctrinating her; 'tis fun), coloring our little velvet pictures while I ran laundry in her machine.

We were trying to figure out exactly why we're friends, aside from the obvious opposites-attract thing, when this happened to explain it all:

Bri looked up and said, "God, it's 3 a.m.! How could we have let the time pass so quickly-"

"What?" I glanced at my watch. "It's twelve-fifteen, you twit. Little hand means the hour."

And somehow, this cracked us both up. Never ask why it's funny. We'll both launch into quoting Eddie Izzard at you. "They don't seem to be going for it..." "They're obviously bastards."

We decided it's because she urges me on, out of my tentative shell, and I mellow her out of being completely bipolar. When we're together, I never chicken out, and she never throws a tantrum. It's quite nice.

But now, it is 3 a.m. Even her cat has given up weaving in and out of my feet.

I invited Surfer Boy to come with us, by the way (although he cut his hair, so the pseudonym is no longer really appropriate). He was already going camping, but I thought the invitation itself was quite taking-the-initiative-y. Yay for me.

And he didn't seem to be groping for an excuse- he's a flirt, but not a false one. Happy dance.

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