FROLIC: the ensuing aftermath and more!

Greetings from vicodin land. It is I, the bruised and sometimes brilliant midnight adventurer, Stephanie. These past few weeks have reopened my eyes to an exciting and dangerous world full of possibility. Possibility has transformed into the strangest realities I have yet experienced here on the edge of the world. So I sit here crosslegged at the computer, chai tea steaming, body aching through a thin veil of vicodin, mind reeling, and listening to the rats rattling the leaves in the palms outside.
Yesterday started out as most days do in my life...fresh and hectic. I finished the details on a commissioned painting and rushed to drop it off and meet up with Teresa. She and Nick are visitng from Wisconsin and staying near Irvine. We had wonderful secret off-menu pizza at CPK (thanks Dalila...it rules!) and I made plans with the cutie guy who works there to meet up later on. So life was sweet as I showed Teresa (aka T-Dog) around and we slurped mango smoothies while strolling Laguna Beach. I think this is the last picture taken of me with a normal face. I will proceed and then you'll know why I look like I got into a knarly bar fight.
After a glorious garlic fest dinner at PF Changs with T-dog and Nick, I met up with Cutie CPK Guy and went out for a drink and some adventure. First I must say that it was a rare and wonderful thing to be around someone who has such positive energy, brains, and also such yummy good looks. And chest hair. Don't forget that. But I will try and stay focussed here on the more important details of our evening. I told you in my last posting here that I wanted to hear from all of you who want to come out and "frolic" with me. So guess where I end up having my first date with Aaron? Yeah, a bar called Frolic. Total irony for me, yeah? Well anyways, we bar hopped to the Pen and then last call was given. So I get this great idea to show Aaron the rope swing in the BMX park across the street. And that is where my night took a turn for the worse.
This old tree has a rope tied to a two foot stick, like a trapeez. The idea is that you run down this ramp of dirt and make a circular swing out over the little ravine and then twist in time to catch yourself running back on land. I have done it many times before, and felt pretty damn confident that this was a cool idea. Aaron swung out first and proclaimed "This doesn't seem very safe." Whoa! Did I stop there and think it over? No siree! I grasped that rod and took my best running leap out into the dark, reaching what he claims to have been at least 9 feet in the air. That is when my hand slipped. My body was flung to earth like a rag doll face first into the abyss. And as I struggled to compose myself and find the pieces of my shattered ego (and to make sure I didn't lose any teeth or break any bones) I made horrible grunting noises while trying to catch my breath. Folks, it was ugly. So I squatted there for a couple of minutes while we both assessed the situation and I sat there covered in dirt. It began to be very funny, but I was still feeling very foolish and uncoordinated. There are some other cute details, but that is for me to know and you to..not know. Unless you were there.
We hailed a cab and after a few smokes, a shot of jack, a couple of icepacks, huge ibuprofens, rubbing alcohol, and the necessary cleansing of my dirt-infested wounds, we watched some Goonies and it was a very wonderful evening. Aside from my black eye, my huge inflamed scraped cheek, my strained wrists, my gigantic ugly hip bruise that is KNAR-ly big, and two scraped knees, a very wonderful evening. And one more thing: a great and weird fist date.
So onto my last topic for the evening, I am inviting all chest hair enthusiasts such as myself to join my Call for Manhood: Chicks For Chest Hair. Depending on response, I intend to form a retaliation against the extinction of one of lifes greatest manly assets. The soft, luxurious, clean, wonderful thing we women miss and don't even realize. Hairy chested men, stand and be proud! Squirt some delicious cologne into that crevasse between your pecs and make us happy to snuggle! Brrrrr! Brrrr! BRRRRR! All silliness aside, of course, I am going to make tshirts. Mel and I have discussed possible slogans such as "It's always better with a sweater" and "Long and soft, don't shave it off!" I am also open for suggestions on this, and hope to regain the momentum of the Magnum P.I. days in the 70's. Come on girls, let's appreciate what real men have to offer and not these prepubescent waxed boy-chests so prevalent in todays metrosexual society. Yeah.
Okay, well, now you know how life is going here. And don't worry, I am going to tone it down now for awhile. While the bruises heal and the dust settles. Shit.
G-night.