mahiwaga

If I hear one more girl tell me that friendships last longer than romantic relationships, I’m going to join the Jesuit order. Or go gay. (Although, I don’t know, I’m not sure how to take the fact that I’ve never been picked up at a gay bar. Does that just mean that I exude an intransigently hetero aura, or am I just repulsive to all genders?)

But it doesn’t matter. When you come right down to it, I suppose it’s much more peaceful to be bored than to be dragged down in another person’s insanity. (Except lately, it seems that I’ve been diving head first into all sorts of madness at the first opportunity.)

So. Now what? I’ve got all this time. (Well, not really, but given the way that I live my life, it might as well be so.)

Hah. Maybe I will sing. And write bad poetry. (To a bucktoothed girl in Luxembourg…. If it’s not love, then it’s the Bomb, the Bomb, the Bomb, the Bomb, the Bomb, the Bomb that will bring us together….)

With four to five slugs of whiskey in me, topped off by a 24 oz. beer, it’s a wonder that I can even type. (My liver is just a detoxifying machine, baby!)

I mean, yeah, I know, I probably shouldn’t be drinking, what with the fact that alcohol can adversely react with the medication that I’m on, and that alcohol itself is a depressant, but, well, how could I possibly say no to the prospect of free drinks?

So EO hooks us up and brings me, Y, and R to a Dewar’s tasting party, and I proceed to get sloppy drunk, despite the fact that it is a Tuesday. (Ah, Tuesdays.)

In this hour, with my liver diligently converting ethanol into acetaldehyde, I can’t but help reflect that, seriously, there is no hope.

There is nothing new under the sun.

I am truly, utterly alone.

So be it.

Bring it on.