Where will you find Crystal Weaver at 10pm on a Saturday night? Stumbling around the dance floor, stepping on toes and spilling cocktails? No, she’ll be living it up in her own unique way. Behind the telescope, or equally the microscope gazing in wonder at the microscopy of a rattus norvegicus.
And she won’t give a rat’s ass that she’s missing out on vast amounts of alcohol, that she’s not wasting vast amounts of cash, time and energy while her ears are straining against the DJ’s decibels in an attempt to hear the no doubt inane comment of the guy next to her who’s been staring at her flimsy blouse for at least ten minutes …
Unlike hoards of woman her age she won’t be hoping desperately that the guy across the way – the view of whom is blocked right now by the sweaty body of the leering creep with the oggling eyes – will finally respond to her come-on while clinging to the waning hope he will take her home, if she can just catch his eye one more time, because she needs him, and because she has after all spent most of her taxi money on booze.
Yes, Crystal’s party is unique. It’s an exciting party, an intelligent party, heady with the thrill of exploring the pure wonder of existence, of life and human consciousness, the researching of the cause and effect of addiction.
These are what matter to Crystal Weaver, these are what make Crystal feel truly alive. These are the features that fascinate Jake Dawson and lead her to love.