After a Queer Studies Circle on genderqueerness (which handily restored my faith in academia, which it faithfully does on a biweekly basis) and a birthday party in the Waugh Room (where my turn-of-the-century cocktail of choice was a Democrat, containing bourbon, peach liqueur, honey, lemon, and ice, thereby handily restoring my faith in the Democratic Party, the primary process, Experience, Hope, and/or Change), I opted to skip going to Escape with a couple of Hertfordians and to type up notes about color and linguistics for my essay on Wednesday.
On the way back, I was walking parallel to two girls across the street, who were clad in jackets and leggings and high heels and were incredibly, uncontrollably drunk. As I watched, one of them slowly slid into the other and pushed her into a wall, where they stood for a minute, laughing. As they pulled away and veered in a slow arc back onto the pavement, one of them lost her balance, teetered for a second on the curb, and fell forwards onto her knees. She mumbled something, dry-heaved as though she was going to vomit between her splayed hands, and hung her head for a moment. Her friend hauled her up forcibly, she gazed deeply into her eyes and mumbled a thank you, and the two of them slowly toppled backwards into a dark alleyway. At this point, a homeless man with a long, knotted beard and a tattered bag on his back stopped and began to chastise them for being such a mess, told them to pull their lives together, and walked away shaking his head in disgust. See? This is why I don't go to the movies anymore.