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Monday, August 04, 2003
This weekend I totally ran the gamut of what South-East Queensland society has to offer.

Friday was spent weaving through filth encrusted bums passed-out in the gutter, as I took a therapeutic tour of some of the wicked (yet pretty pouncy) shops in the Valley. The purpose was simple: find a nice top to go out fagging in that night. Unfortunately, "nice" must be sold-out or out of season or something, because I ended up in a pretty weird t-shirt which probably does nothing for my new "hazlenut" cropped locks (should L'il Dawei be amended, web-designer person?). Meh. I guess it's not like the Beat really attracts the top echelon of Brisbane's social scene. I think the drag-queens dancing to X-tina in pantyhose with suspicious looking holes over their arses tipped me off.

Or that the bartenders wear tight black fagpants, a white vest, and a black bow-tie over their bare necks.

Or the fact that you can't pee in the cubicle without someone climbing over the top of the stall, making you fling handfuls of urine at them in defense so you don't catch their vile AIDS.

Also, shots in test-tubes? Fucking Dracula's on the Gold Coast has been doing that since like, '92. Can we get over it now, please?

Anyway. I survived, I rejected the Buddhist (again. Dude. Give it up already! I don't want to date you. Ew.), I watched some hilarious bad porn. All in all, not a bad night of seedy fagging.

The rest of the weekend was spent resort-ing it up like a mofo poseur, in the hilariously over-the-top Palazzo Versace. But, woah. Talk about your ugly. It was fun though. I just spent the entire time by the pool in an attempt to tan my pasty-ass skin. Unfortunately, my brain must have made the cognitive link that seeing as I was at the Palazzo Versace, I must want to look like Donatella Versace, and my body went orange. My face is still pasty, don't fear. Hmph. Orange or pasty... which is worse?

However, the bars and restaurants kicked sizeable amounts of arse. Although, pool bar people, if I'm signing off for a fourteen dollar margarita, I expect it to be a full glass, thanks, and not served in a kiddie goblet thing. Lack of musculature development aside, I'm nearly 21 people! Oh, that reminds me. Aren't pool boys who provide liquid refreshment for you meant to serve the cold beverages in bulge-revealing tight tight underwear or dicktogs or something? I felt quite gypped by their hideous white pants and teal (!!!) t-shirts!