2003-08-28 - 8:46 a.m.
So on the list of things that I should never, ever do again, drinking six screwdrivers with splashes of peach schnapps on a Wednesday night when Thursday is a work day is very high.
Blah, blech and all that stuff. I am hung over. I feel about as smart as Gary Coleman did right after he submitted his papers to run for CA governor. You know, that feeling, the DOH! feeling when you realize that you're a complete moron? Uh-huh. That one.
You may be asking yourself, why did she drink so much on a Wednesday? Or, more likely, you're thinking, what a dumbass. Ah yes. You are correct on that second count. Yesterday sucked in ways that are uncountable because I run out of fingers and toes with which to enumerate. And to tell you about it I'm changing point of view because this I-I-I shit is fucking annoying in my headachy state.
There are those days when you're bright and rum-tum-Tigger-happy and nothing really gets to you. Then there's the rest of the time, the days when the co-worker two cubes over starts talking about not having special gym underwear(?) at 8:15 and doesn't stop for two hours, that make you want to Stop, Drop and Roll. Then you get home on that bad day and there's an email from this man you met online through a friend earlier in the week; he cycles and he likes off-Broadway and he knows food and fuck it, he's Pracically Perfect in Every Way like Mary Poppins, and he's one more mail away from asking you to dinner. Dinner in a good restaurant, no less, and probably he'll let you pick Waterboy which will utterly endear him to you. And if you're me and your August has sucked like my August has, you freak out because you are so entirely Not Ready. Because what if he likes you and you're still wanting somebody else, or what if he doesn't like you and you're demoralized again. Or, or, or...
So instead of thinking about it you go to a blues club on a Wednesday night with two girlfriends, looking to dance and be stupid and not think. For a while it works, until another girlfriend shows up sobbing about her asshole boyfriend and it's the kind of thing *your* ex did all the time. Until someone says a random word that reminds you there's a particular XXX item under your bed that you bought to use with someone but never got the chance. Then later you're dancing with Extremely Good-Looking Guy and he touches your waist and you're desperate to get away because letting someone else touch you is Out of the Question, even though he smells good. Gaah. Gaah. Triple gaah with a splash of peach schnapps.
And that, my darlings, my word slaves, my over-caffeinated under-appreciated readers, is why six Grey Goose screwdrivers got friendly with my liver on a worknight. It is also why Beek's couch had a Kaetchen-shaped cheek-and-hip print during the limited hours left before dawn, when I sobered up enough to drive home and shower. Now I'm pawing away in my hamster cage, willing to kill for an Advil and craving the surefire hangover cure of a toasted poppy bagel laden with lox and cream cheese. Feed me and put me to bed.
I am the very model of a modern major fucktard. Gaah.
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