2003-05-02 - 10:14 a.m.
Elements of a most unusual Thursday night
At 6:00 p.m., decide to skip work the next day. Cheers from Miss Beek and Cec, who heartily approve this decision. Make the call to your sup.
At 7:00 p.m., finish up the huge oyako donburi Cec has ordered in. Roll on the floor reveling in your stomach's capacity for abuse. Realize that you haven't eaten white rice in forever because it has so much pointless carbs and no fiber, blah blah blah. Wait for your blood sugar to soar. It does. Get silly.
At 8:30 p.m., greet more friends, who come prepared for Sake Bombs. MGD Light and sake. When did the MGD Light can start saying "the champange of beers"? Hee hee. How old am I again?
At 10:00 or thereabouts, send a series of emails that you've been thinking about all day, grateful that Miss Beek's bootlegged network connection still works. Praise the internet to anyone who'll listen. Show intense happiness and a little overspill of horniness.
At 11:00, cave in and start drinking the Sake Bombs anyway, even though you promised yourself you wouldn't. Hmm. Maybe MGD is the champagne of American lagers.
12:30. Put in Grease II. The entire room will double in volume singing "Reproduction" (i don't think he even knows what a pistil is/i got your pistil right here, baby)
2:00. Serena and Mike go home, weaving. Send up a prayer of gratitude that they're walking.
3:00 a.m. in the freaking morning; when was the last time you saw 3:00 a.m.?
4:30 a.m. Realize you're still up talking to Cec, who you're now bonded with in the "I know I'm at the I-love-you-man stage, but I really love you, man" place. Giggle. Check that. Laugh your ass off.
6:00 a.m. Finish your deep conversation with Cec and fall asleep on a Miss Beek's leather couch. Wake up ten minutes later, realizing that this is the same couch you gave her in 1996, and that you can't quite remember, but you think you had sex on it in 1995. Try to subtract 1995 from 2003. Fail.
10:03 a.m. Wake up bleary, ready for home. Realize that the group drank two 12-packs and two bottles of sake. Remember that hangovers are similiar to dying of dehydration. Drink the first of 10,000 liters of water. Pray.
10:04 a.m. Log in online. Check email. Wonder if you've freaked him out. Hope his sinuses feel better. Start to gape at how incredibly, unusually bold you were. Stop when you note that you did all of your writing sober. Brush your teeth, drink some more water, and generally clean yourself up, all with the enormous grin of a 7-year-old in a Roald Dahl-style candy store.
10:28 a.m. Finish writing and savor the freedom of a Friday without work.
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