Ghetto Blasted

Friday, Jonathan met me when I changed trains in Brussels, and we ran to catch the last Antwerp-bound train for the night.
We spent the ride drinking kosher chardonnay, and plastering fake tattoos to our bodies in preparation for Blast Your Ghetto.
He ended up with a puppy head behind his ear, and I sported a grey shoulder kitten.

At the party we danced to warped 80's tunes, and a fabulously gay man told me that he knew I kept secrets behind my clothes. I hoped this was a compliment, and not a transvestite reference.

I worked on wrapping my head around it, then gave up and watched the girl with the balloons tied to her head instead.

We danced until that got old. Then we walked through the park, down the street and around the corner.
Not having to take the metro home from a night out might be one of the best feelings ever.