Remembering to breathe.

I haven't drunk-blogged in awhile, so I suppose this was inevitable.

Stayed at home all day, as the Cutest Couple in the World abandoned me for the wilds of East Iceland. Lounged around in my pj's until I couldn't lounge no more, at which place I started pounding beers and cleaning up the place.

Got done with that, and stumbled over to the Recently Single Friend's house. Smelled like Jamaica was burning over there.

Fire on Babylon.

He's gotten into wacky science stuff from the net, so he showed me the acid etchings and over interesting uses for household chemicals he's discovered while we drank beer and did our usual witty conversation thing, the whole time the phone in my pocket beeping out hints at a majestic evening to come.

Which never did.

Met up with a few friends at the first bar I rambled into, after telling Magda the Polish Waitress about Sam's Polish Virgin Curse.

More on that later.

We drank a bit, then decided to go get some food and pull a pub crawl.

Went to Nonna. The taste, the smell, the lot brought back visceral memories of my exchange year, when we used to joke that Nonni put heroin in the sauce to keep us coming back. It tasted better back then somehow.

Maybe I'm just hooked on Lebanese food now.

Anywho.

Hauled Svanur the Snake-Starver and Heimir the Beautiful Viking to Cosy for shits and giggles, but it was practically empty and lame.

So I dragged thier straight-boy butts up to Qbarinn.

The Swan walked in, and had no problem. But Pretty-Boy Viking bailed like all the homos of hell were after him armed with bikini wax and roofies.

Funny shit.

But I danced, dear blogadytes.

I danced like I haven't danced for a long time.

No thought, no emotion, no intention, no inhibition.

I danced.

Felt like flying.

But even dancing the bachalia can tire a boy out. So can having a squad of Icelandic frat-boy wannabes invade the dance floor, trying to "fag it up".

They'd bounce around, then one would grap an other's ass and he's spin around ready to punch the shit out of someone, only to discover his friend had been grabbing.

Which made it all a joke.

Fucking closet-cases.

So I left, decided to check out the single most politically incorrect bar in Iceland; Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Walked in, and was struck down by beauty.

Not sexy, not cute, not seductive.

Beauty.

"Terrible as the Dawn" beauty.

"All shall love me and despair" beauty.

I was in awe.

She was indescribable. New languages need to evolve to talk about this girl.

Not surprisingly I ran away.

"Terrible as the Dawn", remember?

"All shall love me and despair"?

I booked.

Walking home, both lonely and horny and somehow happy, I witnessed a girl, maybe twenty, being rather forcibly helped by her friends into a car.

Drunk as hell.

Screaming at them for not letting her throw herself in the harbor like she wanted to.

I wanted to walk over to her and tell her. I wanted to say:

"I've been there, many times. By pills, by rooftops, by speeding cars. I've tried. But you know what? Its worth it. Life is. Its worth the sorrow and the pain and the loneliness and the angst. Because sometimes we get to be overwhelmed by beauty. Sometimes we get to be held by a lover. Sometimes we get to laugh with our friends. Life is. If you try to leave before intermission you miss all the good bits."

That's what I wanted to say.

But I just kept walking home...