Fight Club

After all that gay love Friday night, I was feeling fighty Saturday at the Swallow's Inn in San Juan Capistrano, with only my sister to take it out on, while she was all Jesus-y and wouldn't fight back. You know when everybody's going all crazy around you, and you're thinking, Jesus, everybody is really crazy right now, is Mars in retrograde or what the fuck? But then you start going crazy, too, and it's such a relief to get to just be an electric bundle of mean testosterone like you're wearing a big red T on your chest, and you're just waiting for someone to look at you funny, and it's no longer mysterious at all!

Luckily, another guy had his girlfriend to take it out on, as he walked up to the dance floor and smacked her on the back of the head while she was tripping the lights (really very beautifully; we were all mesmerized) with Keith. There's never a dull night at the Swallow's, where I've had a drunk Apache lift my dress over my head and a former Green Beret poke me in the chest and land a fist to my face. Also, there used to be this drunk kickboxing chick who liked to boot men to the head before taking them home and making their lives. She could probably hide a VCR in her bush—she was all woman, man, and she is so my idol. But nobody would fight me—only one another. Fucking Swallow's. I want my beer money back.

CommieGirl99@hotmail.com