I was angry when I met you...

I'm doing it again. Running myself into the ground until my body crashes.

Makes me feel like reading Rollin's Broken Summers again. That book just makes you want to pushpushpush.

I've been trying not to let this weakness in my body get the better of me. I'm fighting it as much as I can without actually stopping and resting, even though I tried this weekend.

Tonight, dinner with a friend, then curling up together and watching Dollhouse. I'm a major cuddler.
Tomorrow, karoke. It's cross-dresser night, so I'm helping another friend bind her breasts down. Or so I was told via text message yesterday.
Wednesday, dinner with friends, then a strip club somewhere in Hollywood that my friends insist is amazing.
Thursday, a show with more friends at the Mayan.

Then we hit the weekend.

SFPlayboy might be coming down to visit, but I already planned things with GV8. Fortunately, both of them seem quite happy sharing me.

So Friday, I may have dinner with some friends... or I may go and molest Playboy.

Saturday day, I'm going to run up to the warehouse/loft space that GV8 found for his club (which is spectacular) and take Before pictures, since construction is going to kick up soon. He found this wonderful place just off of Highland, right by Santa Monica Blvd. It's big. It's wonderful. He's going to be installing large mirrors and a dancefloor, I'm assuming a soundsystem, and the standard clublights. Which means I'm going to be able to go over there any freaking time I want (because, of course, I get a key) and dance myself silly, picking my own songs, my own temperature, with no one to bump into. The loft space above is going to be converted into a bedroom, so whenever I feel like crashing in Hollywood after a club, I can just drive down the street and rack out. It's got a full kitchen, standard bathroom (though he's going to be putting in a jacuzzi tub in place of the shower). I'm trying to talk him out of stripper poles, but that seems unlikely. Anytime I feel like throwing a party, I'm golden. Lounging about the place, with couches, beanbags, and stacks of mattresses (swing parties, also yay) if I choose to pull them out... win. Freaking win.

Anyhow, end excited ramble.

Saturday night, supposedly one of my longtime friends, a club promoter these days, is getting together a group of promoters for a monthly trip-hop club at a venue I've yet to go to. This Saturday, assuming he pulled it all off, I'll be able to get my groove onto the likes of Massive Attack, PortisHead, Tricky, Goldfrapp, et. al. Best music to dance to, hands down.

But I've invited both Playboy and GV8.

Which means I have this opportunity to (fairly easily) convince both of them to go back to GV8's place with me for some DP.

This, this makes me happy.

Of course, that's if Playboy comes down. He might not. We'll see.

Whether or not he does, though, I'll be out with GV8, dancing and loving. Sunday, again, will be recooperation time (though it usually is me not getting enough sleep when I'm woken with fingers and tongue at 8AM), then probably a trip down to Venice to get some lenses grinded so I can get a pair of nice sunglasses that are actually prescription.

I should call off tonight. I know I should. My body is screaming for it.

But I haven't seen this guy, Ty, in a month or two and I feel bad about blowing him off so often.

So... yes.

Gotta keep pushing.

When I crash, I crash.