I feel like I got fucked by a cactus. I'm sitting in Herrel's Allston Cafe eating lunch/dinner and squirming after this 75 year old male gyno sliced off all the evil cells from my cervix aided by three oddly pretty and young female assistants of oddly central-casting-esque racial variety. I'm trying to write, but in my discomfort it just took me about three minutes to think of the word, "variety." Suffice it to say, you never want to hear "Should I set it to blend or slice, doctor?" in regards to any piece of machinery about to enter your vagina.
The weekend was so nice and glorious and low key. It was great to get out of the city with seven of my favorite people, all bunking a la The Real World, but fighting less and having more fun and better conversations. We went to the beach on a wonderfully cloudy and windy day, bought pretty things we didn't need, and made feasts. We went out and sang drag karaoke and danced to bad booty music at Vixen. We sat on so many balconies in our underwear with coffee. It was perfect, if only it were a little longer.