In order to avoid fading away into nonexistence or simply blending into the walls and being banished into self-imposed obscurity, I wore a stuffed monkey around my neck in the hope that people would initiate contact with me at the all-night, lock-in rave that Brandon somehow convinced me to attend last week.
The rave was held at one of those hippie churches in San Francisco, where they had an opening ceremony that involved candle lighting and they chanted something about having a "beginner's mind." No alcohol was allowed, but the majority of the people there were high on something.
People wanted to stroke my monkey, and that was fun for a while. But I'm no dancer, the hula-hoopers took up a lot of space, and the "cuddle room" seemed a bit ridiculous. I soon figured out that in order to fully enjoy the evening you either had to be on drugs (I wasn't, of course) or you had to pretend to be on drugs.
Please make a note of it.