Stumble Into the Matrix

We went to Matrix last night. We had beers in our car, and that disposition only possible to reach when you've been happy houring for hours. Dear black girl with glasses who danced to The Smiths "Girl Afraid", you made me feel less self-conscious about my own glasses, and I could even say that you sparked one of the best nights of my life. Because, on the empty dancefloor, drunk & swaying, I suggested to Bruno (one of my oldest friends) we search for a joint, and when we did, and lit the thing inside the DJs booth, the fairies came down for me and took me to Giggle Land, where random women think it wise to rub their curvaceous bodies against me and have clearly never heard of new technological discoveries such as Gaydars, where a lineup for the pool table becomes the best place to talk about a cage in the wall and how it might be used as a prison, where my brain snaps back and forth between plans to live in Brasil and how not to think about flying back to England in a week's time.


I bought a hotdog, beers and caipirinha from this girl. Eventhough she had a frown, and didn't enjoy the teasing from my friends, she was nice enough not to charge me extra when I was drunk and handing over waaaay too much money for bottles of water. If I lived in São Paulo, I would come to this bar often, become friends with the staff and the other regulars, bury the week's stress in a Rolling Stone song, sit at the tables by the bar for random conversations, meet old friends, get smoked up by the DJ (remind me to send him a present or buy him a drink next time), and leave around 5am, just like last night.


The dancefloor wasn't as busy as in this picture. The place was filled with mostly women "ovulating", as Bruno said. We were hunted down by the Mini-Meninas, then by a random chick called Kelly, who couldn't decide if she wanted to kiss Bruno or I. It was a bad night for Kelly. Another girl, Rachel, kept pinching me and trying to do the twist. Apparently, she is crazy. She dragged around a silent girl who played her portable wallflower. Pretty girls make graves for their ugly best friends. I sang my heart out to a song I can't remember now -- but I do remember it was important then. I tied my sweater around my waste but didn't sweat. My glasses kept slipping down my nose. We drank coffee in a nearby pub, mostly to wake up Henrique so he could drive us home without killing anyone.

I may have cried to The Cure's "Boys Don't Cry" on the way home.