…or not.

Ok… so I'm not passed out with my head on the shoulder of a hot girl I was just drunkenly engaged in random acts of passion.

Nor am I sitting in a corner making Virgin Mary's with the drool that seeps from my mouth.

I'm at home.

In bed.


It was a nice New Year's Eve, spending it with Juliet and such.

But alas… no passion for Leigh. 🙁

Still… Bondi was invaded by the metrosexual last night.

Loads of guys, boys, and people who probably thought they were men only to be turned down by everything with breasts walking back from the beach. They wore yellow shirts, pink shirts, cyan shirts, bubblegum shirts, no shirts and at times I seriously thought that on any other day and in any other time & place, they'd probably punch the guy next to them for wearing the same clothes.

And there were lots of drunk people. I wandered past some hot French girls with stupid haircuts who couldn't find Bondi Junction. They were a 5 minute walk from it. They could have followed the large group of people making their way there like a slow moving tribe. So I told them to walk up there pretty much in a straight line… about a five minute walk… maybe they're in the Junction still trying to find the train station.

If you see a couple of hot French girls with haircuts that make you go "huh… why she just put jam all over her head and then stuck her skull in a lawnmower for a few minutes," you've found them. Point them in the right direction, would you? That'd be nice. 

Oh by the way: Happy New Year.

Happy 2008.

Here's for hoping to get laid… or at least getting a kiss this year. 

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