A/N: This was inspired by a writer I've only just discovered. This is more fact than fiction, though there are elements of both here.

Another week finished, and I know what's coming. Friday night will be quieter than its successor, perhaps filled with a long drive in my car because it's cheaper to run than my friends. A cheap meal because none of us have much money since we returned from America. Long talks, mostly about rubbish; movies, music, taste in women. Nothing of substance, nothing that need be remembered. Friday night ends too late, I drop my friends off at their houses before the sun rises, but only just. I sleep through most of the next day, waking up to a house full of dusty sunshine and a bad taste in my mouth.

The day doesn't really begin until I get out of bed, and that can take hours when I have so many books to entertain me, or DVD's if my brain isn't switched on quite enough. It's not until I get a phone call ("Dude, where are you? Come over, bring beer.") that I finally roll out of bed and into the shower. I take my time, letting the water revitalize my skin and my brain. Thoughts move a million miles a minute while the water rushes over me like a personal waterfall, some of them significant, most fickle.

I get back to my room and dress up for the night out. I step into my jeans, slip on a black t-shirt and cover it with a white shirt with very light blue floral designs on it. It's cold, so I pick up my brown leather jacket, loving the softness of it. The brown leather shoes aren't as comfortable, but they look cool. I style my hair, which takes almost no time at all, and slipping on my rings and doing the clasp on my necklace as I rush towards my car (due to another call, "Come on man, hurry up. And don't forget the beer!") and drive far too quickly to my friend's house with the window down and the music up.

I pick up Shane on the way, turning the music down and letting him, against my better judgement, smoke his cigarette in my car. It's only a short drive before we reach Max's house. We arrive, beer in hand and looking for all the world as if we're ready to hit the town. We sit in Max's bedroom listening to music on his insanely powerful stereo which I'm sure his neighbours must love. I'm sitting on his bed with the remote, switching songs until I find one I like. Ziggy Stardust. Perfect.

The beers are finished, and on that note we're ready to leave. The club is only a short walk, which is convenient because we can't afford to catch a taxi from anywhere further away, and none of us have a strong desire to be the designated driver. We leave Max's house and head down the street, talking a little too loudly. The clicking of my shoes almost distracts me, but not quite. My two friends flank on either side of me and they squabble about something, catching me in the crossfire of their humorous insults.

We pass a line of stores, and I glance at the figure of the three of us in the window. I self indulgently take notice of the fact that I'm the tallest, only slightly taller than Max, and the handsome one of the group. My blond hair stands out in comparison to their dark hair, my blue eyes are a stark contrast to their dark ones. I shake my head and clean my mind, not allowing myself to sink into that line of thought. Instead I play with the ring on my finger, twirling it around and slipping it from finger to finger.

Finally we arrive at our destination. There is only a small line, so I know our wait won't be long. We line up, and listen for a moment to the conversation between two people in front of us. It's not a highly amusing topic, but we're a little drunk and when I'm tipsy, everything is funny. For a moment, I feel completely sober. The desire to go home, curl up in bed and read a book is almost overwhelming. Clubs with their throw-away music, spilled beer and cigarette smoke hanging in the air seems like a horrible idea and I wonder what the hell I'm doing there. I want to sink into Poppy Z. Brite's world of vampires and visionaries in Lost Souls, or laugh all night with the gang from How I Met Your Mother. I want to sit at my glowing computer screen and write, not be stuck in this dirty little room with the flashing lights and the dancers.

But then the bouncer asks to see my ID, and I remember why I'm there; because it's where my two friends want to be, and I'm the catalyst, weather I like it or not (and sometimes I do). I hand over my money, get my wrist stamped and wonder into the tangle of limbs. All dreams of beds and books are overtaken by the smell of beer.

12:05am, 20th January 2009