I am just a horrible sinning cheater, poppets.
JournalCon, JournalCon... that's all I can think about. "Oh, I miss it all so much," I'm whining to myself (and whoever will listen.) "And, everyone was just supercool, and I just miss them all so much!" The litany just keeps going on and on and on in my head. Really, I'm annoying myself. But do I get it out of my system once and for all, and tell you about it? No! Nooo! Of course not! And why? Because frankly, I'm spending far too much time reading everyone else's versions.
Because, really, there is just no easy way to convey what I saw and did and learned this weekend. Yesterday's silly little burst of emotion Is. Just. Not. Enough.
Firstly, you may think you understand the utter diva coolness of some of your favorites but really, you have no idea how very much they surpass that. If they wore short skirts, poppets, their balls would show. And there is no better compliment then that, my friends.
There was hangin', there was laughter, there was pizza shoved under my door. Seriously, the only reason there was no bowing and scraping was because nobody wanted to spill their drink. Oh, alright, fine. I didn't want to spill my drink.
I took a walk to bloody Guam with a total hottie which was lovely because I was wearing my sensible shoes and my blister wounds only required six Band-Aids. What? Two and a half inch wedgies ARE sensible! Pshaw. It was totally worth it, though. But now I'm jealous of the Longhorns t-shirt he bought because I wasn't smart enough to do the same, and when I was 3 minutes from the gate at the Austin airport, I saw a whole posse of orange hoodies go by, and realized that I look great in that colour and they totally would have matched my orange underwear from American Eagle. Because that's another thing I learned from Weet. Matching from the skin out is non-negotiable.
No one but Sundry should ever wear a denim skirt again. She's reached the pinnacle of denim skirt wonder and hotness, and trying to surpass it will just make you look silly. Trust me on this one. You want to make a stab at looking good? Match your underwear to your outfit.
I'm happy to say that I went home with all my crushes intact. I even fell just a little bit in love with a true Texan. If that doesn't work out, I see a future of us stalking the same boys together, because happily, we have the same taste. Isn't that great? It's like I'm 16 years old, and I just met a new friend who shares the same dress size!
I've got anecdotes a'plenty to share, my darlings, but in my usual fashion, I've got to drag this out like a grudge kept by God. There is much savouring to be done, and if I spill it all out now, I won't get to slowly relive the joy of Boyz Cellar and marble reception areas and stripping for strangers and random bathroom kisses and performance art that blew me away and karaoke that blew the roof off a bar and and and...
And, oh God! The panels were amazing, too!
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