  I had so much fun, it was retarded. Friday, I went with Kerry to see The Notebook, which was amazing. It was the most romantic movie I have ever seen, and it made me want to fall in love. Then we went to the Economy Shoe Shop for drinks and tapas, and met up with a group of friends. It was a lovely evening. Saturday, I went with Kerry to the Gay Pride Parade. It was so good! I am always amazed at the vibrant gay seen in Hali. At one point, we were looking at a gorgeous man with a wicked body having water poured over him while he danced on a float.
I told Kerry it was a guy I knew, and she asked if he was gay (of course) and then said, "Oh! That's so wrong!". Three people turned around to glare at us. Wrong thing to say at a gay pride parade, Ker. Although it raised the interesting question, why are all the good ones gay? We decided it was something like having a specialized job. If your job is specialized, and there aren't a whole lot of positions available, you have to be the best in your field. If you have some run-of-the-mill job that you can find anywhere, what's the motivation to be the best?
In short, all the good ones are gay, because women have yet to demand better. I am putting my foot down. It is not sooo hard to have a bit of style, take some time with the hair, and make an effort at person grooming. This is all I ask, and I am tired of the answering being, "sorry, I'm gay". Not good enough, boys. Saturday evening was the best time I have ever had in Halifax. I went to a joint stagette with a small group of girls, and it was so great.
We kept running into a stag party full of rowdies at several of the bars on our pubcrawl. Kerry thought I wasn't talking to them because I was shy, but it was really because I was not willing to yield the lowest common demoninator. Is it just me, or do men you meet in bars always demand the stupid bimbo? Kerry is an amazing girl, and I am so happy we are such good friends these days, but that girl delivered. As it was, I allowed some guy to hold my hand for about a minute (it was one of those, "come'on. Just hold my hand for a minute? Why are you so reserved? " - yuch. I can't believe I caved) and kissed a guy on the lips. I offered my cheek, and was pressured into using my lips. This is how I was turned into a Bimbo, and I was even resisting the pressures.
I was called "the uptight one" and still, they managed to turn me into someone other than me. This is the dance we do - the guys act like macho assholes in an effort to bend us, and make us small, and we oblige.
Not good enough, boys.
And girls. But, not all my time was wasted by men in togas, so it was still a really great time. I even saw one of the multitude of eye-contact crushes, and managed to make loads more eye-contact with him (just talk to him!
I will next time. I promise). Still, the whole thing was fun, and when we ended up at the Marquee, I met Justin, who has style, and is a great dancer (not even gay, ladies! ) and even gave him my number. I am looking forward to the call, but he is no Ryan Gosling, and I am no Rachel McAdams... I want to be Rachel McAdams. Oh well, you've got to start somewhere, right? 
