Tell me again why this felt like a dream in which I went looking for a club and found one with a countdown. One last night, and everything slowly turned green.

Red lighting and I don’t usually get along. It ruins perfectly good nights before they begin.

The Rote Hase fixed that problem and turned it into something dangerously good.

I don't usually wake up like this, but Wednesday I did. Newstead Abbey was calling and I don't ignore calls like that.

Proceed with caution.

Punk wasn’t exactly my thing, but there are reasons to make you try anyway. A borrowed sweater, a bit of effort, and suddenly I was on a rooftop fighting the establishment. Not bad for a Tuesday.

It started as a pool party and ended as something far less innocent. Let’s just say the water wasn’t the only thing getting heated.

There’s a version of me who edits photos the morning after. She drinks lattes and makes excellent decisions.

We’ve never met.

It takes a lot to change my Thursday plans. Last night I had a very good reason. It was pleasure.

The Snake Pit opened it doors.

420 at The Continental sounded like a good idea at the time. No one seems to remember it clearly. My camera, as always, does.

I closed Sunday out across a few clubs, with Bardeco as one of the final stops. The bar is good, the room breathes, and the ratio of good-looking men is, statistically speaking, suspicious.

The theme was oil and I had multiple concerns. Serious, vocal, extensively shared concerns. As usual I was overthinking it. Everything went smooth and everyone was beautiful.

Wednesday used to mean nothing. A placeholder. A day you get through on the way to something better.

The Continental doesn’t do placeholders.

Two days of Poolapalooza because the bouncer at NITE told me no. A weekend full of heat, chaos, and moments you don’t chase, but find you.

One door said no. Everything else opened.

Be Seen returns this Sunday at Sanctuary, and we’re opening with a party at 1 PM (SLT). I’ll be there, and I’d really like to see you too.

Come by, bring your people, and stay for a while.

We returned, back on our feet and ready to move. DJ Tiina debuted in the Valmoor Boiler Room. The heat was on. The machinery tried, but it didn’t stand a chance.

Festival season started and no one told me. Apparently it just happens now. I changed behind a tree, brought the camera anyway, and there was only one casualty.

I hadn't even taken off yet and I was already reconsidering my entire relationship with leisure. Then Michiel put me in the sixties. The week required very little from me, and I gave it everything anyway.

The weekend owed me a resurrection. What I got was a trail of clubs, a cage fight, and an unreasonable number of bunnies.
By Sunday, I’d stopped resisting it.

This wasn’t planned. Just luck during a late walk with a filter I still had on. Without it, I wouldn’t have seen a thing and would have walked right past something incredible.

I located the nearest ER, packed bandages, and watched a CPR tutorial at half-speed because full speed felt aggressive. None of it helped. Valmoor's Bruised theme delivered considerably more.

When the Sunday conference call comes in on a Monday, someone's either dead or brilliant. The F*CK MONDAY group and Amped Up Dance Crew proved it was the latter, packing Neon Desert on the worst night of the week.