Back in the day, when I still lived at the House of Pain, and I was a million years from ever being married, the highlight of my week, was dancing to the last song on Saturday night. Brenan would play some Rage Against the Machine, let the crowd get crazy, and once they dwindled, Wilco would come on.
I never had a boy to dance with, and neither did Renee. We would drunkenly find each other, embrace each other, and she would put her head on my bosom. We would spend that last four minutes of our night slow dancing, singing, and watching Brenan dance with Tarus.
People tell me that those hard partying times of my life were useless, embarrassing, days I should regret.
To those people, I say nobody, nobody can eat fifty eggs.
Why would I ever regret the greatest days of my life?
Fun is fun, no matter where it was had, and you'd have to pay me a shitload of money to ever regret a moment spent with good friends and good music.
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