dead_fish_perfumed_fingers raze it was a beatles-themed party. i was one of the few who forgot to wear anything beatlesy. she didn't mind. she still thinks i look like lennon. "i brought my own john lennon," she told her friends, and i did a better job of imitating his voice than i'd done a few weeks ago. a river of glitter ran across the long table made by the smaller tables pushed together, quarter notes and pink hearts and circular things that looked like tiny rolled-up sleeping bags, and one girl couldn't stop laughing at whatever someone else was saying, and one guy looked like the love child of rivers cuomo and justin long, and i ate a beer and a few ice cubes while everyone else ate food, and i looked at the chinese zodiac on my placemat and saw i was a pig. i shook the hand of a friend of a friend. she gave me a dead fish. i realized again that i have a hard time not feeling contempt for people who can't even be bothered to close their fingers for a second and at least create the illusion of a mediocre handshake. especially when it's the handshake of introduction, and there's a good chance it's the only handshake there's ever going to be. but the one who made me her nominal beatle, whose birthday it was, gave me a hug, and some trace of her perfume clung to the fingertips that touched the back of her shirt and wouldn't leave until i washed my hands. so it all evened out. 131124 what's it to you? who go blather from