Like three 19th century convicts deported by the British government to the penal colony of New South Wales, S___, K___ and I were ravaged by a work week’s worth of physical punishment and medical neglect.

But with most spates of excessive labor comes an eventual reprieve, and for us, Friday evening offered such an opportunity to forgive Australia for its cruel sun and backbreaking coal mines and, instead, indulge in the healing balm of its yeast-based cuisine.

A journey to the south and to the west – a journey traveled so many times by so many – over the bridge and through what was once surely woods, to Outback Steakhouse in Arlington, Virginia, we go!

There was a 30 minute wait at Outback, so we went to Olive Garden instead.

Presented with a menu of perverted Italian fare, I chose the Apricot Something Chicken, which the ristorante’s website later revealed as having just 380 calories.

S___ and K___, on the other hand, each opted for the gastronomic Tour of Italy, a 1,400-calorie junket that typically includes an abrupt stopover in the bathroom.

I was pleased with my choice, although you’d never guess based on how fat I’m feeling at the pool today.

It’s Friday, and C__ is back in town from Brussels, whatever that is, and I am SO EXCITED because we’ve made plans for a ladies night out at FUEGO, D.C.’s hottest gay nightclub for Latinos and the men who fetishize them. Although I qualify as neither of those things, both C__ and our friend R__ do, and besides, who am I to deny my brothers a night of passion with someone who lives in Alexandria, wears Old Navy boxer shorts, and doesn’t speak English.

As it turns out, Fuego is not exactly located in the most accessible of neighborhoods. In fact, it’s not really located in a neighborhood at all. What does one call the 1800 block of New York Avenue NE? The Arboretum District? Because that’s what’s across the street. Oh, and it’s housed in the same building as the United Cerebral Palsy headquarters. Perhaps PN Hoffman will build a condo there and a bunch of intrepid douches will start a “UnCePal” listserv.

Anyway, we pile into a cab, and after 20 minutes of watching the meter climb to an alarming $20, we pull up to our destination. “This is it!” R__ says, pointing at an awning with the United Cerebral Palsy logo. Somehow, this is reassuring. The driver pulls away, and we find ourselves alone in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Ah, but see, out of the darkness emerges a gang of Latinos, which might have proven a wee bit unnerving on any other given night, but on this night they inspire sighs of relief. And they’re cute! Perhaps our Fuego adventure won’t be as much of a pig fuck as I had expected. We follow them into the club, where we pay $10 for cover and get hammered.

Well, that’s oversimplifying things. I had three rum and Cokes, which were essentially glasses of rum with some ice dropped in as a perfunctory gesture. I took off my T-shirt because it was just so damn caliente in there. My self-tanner was dripping all over the place and left orange smears on several unidentified objects/people. Someone winked at me, the way an uncle winks at his niece after he abuses her in a Lifetime movie. We left in a cab and went to the gay McDonalds on 17th Street, where I traded in my remaining scraps of dignity for an eight-piece McNuggets meal. Then I called my boyfriend and made him pick me up. I watched a few episodes of “Three’s Company” (“Where’s Susan Sarandon’s character?”) and passed out at 5 a.m.

The next day I went to the public pool, but that’s a story for another time. All of my friends wear Speedos and I have no idea why.

It’s funny how I can spend an entire weekend celebrating pride, only to wake up on Sunday morning to a world of extraordinary shame.
I guess that’s Newton’s third law of motion for you. (Thanks, Wikipedia!) To every act of pride, there is an equal and opposite act of humiliation and disgrace. My weekend at Capital Pride proved no exception to this rule.
PRIDE: Wisely wearing sunglasses during Saturday afternoon’s parade to eliminate the very real possibility of direct eye contact with those who I’ve been purposefully avoiding since last year’s Pride.
SHAME: Exclaiming “I KNOW YOU FROM FRIENDSTER” (truthfully) every single time Jamie introduced me to someone at his party.
PRIDE: Resisting nearly all urges to talk about my landlady to strangers.
SHAME: Failing to correct my friend whenever he referred to me as a “famous blogger.”
PRIDE: Spending Friday night with straight people.
SHAME: Spending Sunday night watching Fox News. (If that doesn’t restore your gay pride to a state of equilibrium, I don’t know what does.)

An air conditioner… FROM THE FUTURE!
Have you ever been to Mercury Grill on 17th Street? It’s a pretty cool place, and it caters to a very specific clientele:

1. People who hate air conditioning.

2. People who love the scent of commercial-grade air freshener.

I, for one, fit into these two categories as if they were a pair of gloves tailored exclusively for my very hands.
I walked to the Grill yesterday afternoon from my office, enduring 1.1 miles of blood, sweat and clipboard-wielding Save the Children solicitors. How pedestrian, indeed. I was sweating weapons of mass destruction but nevertheless maintained an air of dignified condescension, thanks to my glamorous black sunglasses and the Lindsay Lohan sountrack playing continuously in my head if not on my iPod.
Upon arrival at everyone’s favorite watering hole in the ground, I stepped inside and basked in what I at first identified as the tingly feeling of conditioned air. Further inspection attributed the sensation to an aerosol of lemons descending from an automated dispenser above the door. Same difference, right? I breathed in deeply and took pleasure in the realization that I suddenly had the munchies for lemon and pine.
The bartender asked me if I’d like anything to drink. I dryly mouthed the word “Water”, shortly before collapsing from overexposure to heat and chlorofluorocarbons.