Weekend, or How I Met Fat Charlie

Everything started off innocently enough -- on Saturday I did my all usual chores in true OCD fashion, overdosed on coffee that evening to prepare for the night of drunken revelry, and then danced madly as the fabulously gay people of The Donkey Show revived seventies disco. I was particularly enchanted by the woman who played Queen Titania, or rather by the butterfly pasties that were all that stood between her and toplessness. Costume technology is truly wondrous.
The boy in gold was in roller skates the whole time!
A mysterious tattoo.
After the show, we all went to drink some more and the next morning I found myself with a tattoo of my beloved Sheba in a place that I may not mention for fear of secret Internet censors. I didn't bother to waste my time wondering how the hell I got a tattoo and why it looked like the eyes were drawn in with yellow highlighter. It was clearly a God-given sign that I should stop wasting my life being a good little girl, performing such mundane weekend tasks as cleaning my apartment, going grocery shopping, and doing my laundry. Its miraculous nature was proven without a doubt when I took a shower, and these characters appeared on the tattoo's torso: エンゼル猫はチョーかわいい. They disappeared when I dried off, and another eye-opener came about when I exposed it to direct sunlight (a feat requiring all my gymnastics skills) -- the phrase, clear as day, Este gato es un ángel. El silencio es imposible.


Sheba's true nature was thus finally revealed: she is a chattyphim, a choir of angels that never shuts up, come from heaven to reveal to me the path to salvation. Delighted, I plopped her onto my shoulder and took her outside, so that she may show me the way. Guided by her unerring directional codes -- "mrow" for left, "rawr" for right, and "prrrrrr" for keep going straight -- I ended up at the North End, known for its fantastic Italian restaurants and snooty residents. In a park, waiting for me, was Fat Charlie.
Best birthday present so far!
Fat Charlie's owner was nearby, or should I say former owner, because he immediately came forward and proffered me the key, or whatever one uses to start up these bad boys. I think you press a button. Anyway, he greeted me happy birthday, and although the date was wrong, the month sure was right, so I solemnly thanked him and we stared at each other and then he kindly offered to drive me around on Fat Charlie whenever I wished and we went to a pool and swam and played and saw Japan beat the US at women's soccer and went home and watched HP7 part 1 and the entire time the wind was in my hair and the engine was threatening to burn off my slipper-clad right foot and Fat Charlie was between my legs. Wait, that sounded really wrong, but it is technically true, as Fat Charlie is a motorcycle and good luck riding him sidesaddle! Speaking of saddle, we tucked in Sheba nice and safe in one of the saddle bags, in case you were wondering what happened to her after taking me all the way to the North End on foot.

This blog post has no point, other than to have you speculate which bits of it are true and which ones aren't. But it's all true. Except the parts that aren't. But otherwise, all truth. Totes. I totes swear.