July was warm and busy, with G8 protestors descending upon the city. I made it to the Make Poverty History thing, but I rationalised that I was still too emotionally messy to go off rioting or anything, so I continued getting drunk with Leonard instead. I was heading out the door to do just that when #120 and his partner landed on my doorstep, having hitched back to Edinburgh from the Isle of Skye only to find that their previous crashspace was now occupied by a flock of Czechs. If I hadn’t been in, their plan was to sleep in my corridor. It was a surprise visit, but I welcomed them into my flat and left them to an evening of counter-cultural pursuits, namely spending their evening reading the new Harry Potter to each other.
We went to CC’s after that. #110 tried to make out with me but I reminded her that she had a girlfriend. Her Australian friend jumped around on the dancefloor with his shirt off and complained that no-one here knew how to PARTY. #160 continued to behave like he was from a different planet. I fixated on cute girls who were either straight or had girlfriends, and none of them so much as looked in my direction, and I wondered whether I got written off as a fag hag or what, and tried not to reflect too long on this sorry state of affairs. Some boy I’d never met before HANDED ME HIS JACKET so he could go and do Michael Jackson moves on the dancefloor, so I left it in an unceremonious heap on the floor. Leonard and I made the wise decision to leave just before closing, so as to avoid getting sucked in to the sidewalk sale. I made out with the Australian for a minute, but that was nothing strange or startling because everyone did.
I stomped home in a grump, the gist of which being: stupid CC’s, stupid boys, stupid girls, stupid lack of action.