Well, well, well. What do we have here. 7:30am and Barbarella is at home. That�s right, folks, I�m not feeling too well. So I can�t make it into work today, which upsets me greatly, as you must know. And YOU know. However, despite my �illness�, I must now describe to you my evening yesterday.

Girls, girls, girls! Steph made the most delectable dinner, spinach lasagna, a sauce she worked on the previous night for 3 and a half hours! (so worth it, and bless her heart, she said the reason it took so long is because she was making sure I didn�t get any crunchy bites � I have this texture thing, don�t ask) All fresh, all natural, all Steph. And something new for us all to try: garbage bread. Bread baked with garlic, artichoke, and 3 kinds of cheeses. Sinful. Delicious. And intoxicating, as we all learned, all 5 of us, giddy and silly by the time we finished our meal.

S, S, K, and C. And me. After dinner, we were treated to K�s version of the Running Man dance to Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys. And the cheering, oh the cheering, having been cheer leaders, some of these girls danced and kicked and smiled like you�ve never seen before. Beaming with girl spirit. Some wine, some laughs, and we all got the itch in our pants to go out, see people, dance! No, not Hedonism, my usual Thursday treat (that is, WHEN I get out to it), but downtown, to meet up with Mr. Fizgig at the wine bar, and listen to a talented bloke strum an acoustic guitar and sing melodies with a pleasant voice.

Laughing, wine (oh God, the wine), and the lot of us, including the addition of Fizgig, the musician, and two of his friends, headed to the Red Sea club, where we could continue our cocktail marathon and dance the night away. FUN! I was able to show my ladies the very same stall I wrote about with the mirror next to the toilet. You know, from �Bathroom Boogie�? It�s in my archives. And NO, we did not have actual intercourse in there. If you read it, you�ll see I carefully skirted the details, because they weren�t necessary, the outcome was all the same.

ANYHOO, downtown, dancing, we were five powerful women to be reckoned with. Five beautiful, ALIVE (and no, that ain�t the booze talkin�), humorous, intelligent, mature, and downright silly women. I couldn�t have been surrounded by a better crowd. We wound down at S�s afterwards, sharing thoughts and emotions as only close women friends can do, comfortable, bare, honest, THERE. It�s so amazing, this thing we have with each other. We each have our individual one-on-one relationships at varying levels, varying steps of friendship. But as a group, there is another entity, one of camaraderie, identity, understanding. It just felt so goddamned COMFORTABLE.

Friends, REAL friends, not these people you refer to as �a friend of mine� or that you hang out with on occasion, but the real friends, the ones who know every thought you have, every stance you take, where in life you�re being fake, and where in life you�re being true to yourself. Those friends, THOSE FRIENDS are not to be taken for granted. They are your team, your support, your cheerleaders, if you will. And oh, what cheerleaders my girls are.

Thank you, ladies. Thank you, THANK you, thank YOU from the bottom of my heart. Because all the heavy stuff sinks to the bottom, and all the fake shit floats to the top; and real love, care and devotion� man, it�s heavy. That�s where you psycho-chicks sit in me. I am so grateful for that. Never forget that you are loved and appreciated. Never forget the white-ass-tray. Or the Anais. I document so that when we are old and/or more dorky than we are now, we can look back as if through a photo-album, and remember the good times we had through the books by my bed.

Alright, enough sentimental surrogate sister stuff for now. I�ll leave it at this: I am one lucky bitch.

-Barbarella

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