My socks are still on, Wellington

It's been a good and crazy week. I've gone out every night! Last night I went to another comedy show (some ha, some ho hum), then drinks and dancing. Reza spun me around and around in an attempt to practice some partner dancing, it was funny, he was like, I don't know what we're doing anymore, it's not salsa though. I might take salsa classes with him and hovig and others. It's the age of dancing here in windy windy Wellington. Kris is taking a secret dance class, almost everyone is taking swing, some of us ladies are doing the african, and now salsa is beginning next week. I really love dancing.

Running 3 hours short of ideal sleeping conditions here. I'm gonna crash in 2 hours when I get home. The gang all came into town and we took an extra long lunch break at Leuven. I had a huge roast lamb pie, fries with mayo and a Leffe Brune, which are loafing around in my stomach whispering to me that it's definitely definitely nap time right now. I want to go home and read the new Haruki Murakami book I shelled out $5 for in order to skip the reserve cue at the library, and fall asleep under it in my comfy bed (I've finally figured out what size that bed is, it's called a King Single? I destroyed a pair of Twin sheets to figure that one out. It's really the perfect size for one adult, but definitely not two). Yum. And get woken up by a fun phone call, maybe from Clodagh telling me it's time for some salsa if I can bear to drag my ass 3 blocks down the road. Maybe Clodagh, maybe. I'm still a tiny bit hungover from last night, maybe tonight should be my night off. And then I can wake up super early tomorrow and bring baked goods out to Marine Manor and make my long distance phone calls. I feel like talking to Dad, and friends in San Francisco. I feel like talking to everyone, or just listening. I want to absorb your lives into my brain and think about them, and feel warm about you. All of you. Even the guy in Records.