mush

My social duty kept me from watching Syd and her sister engage in a wet-suited cat fight on last night's episode of Alias. I had to tape it so I could go to see a couple bands at this smelly bar. I'm flat broke, so I had to use my credit card to get drinks, which could be seen as a sign of desperation, and it is, but rock shows and alcohol have become synonymous. I used to stay dry at shows, but at some point, I stopped. It was worrysome at first until I realized that it's just simply what I do now. I drink.

I don't think I'm an alcoholic, and that's not denial. Unfortunately, it's a no-win situation. If I say I'm an alcoholic, I am, and if I say I'm not, I'm denying that I am. I'll admit to being a social drunk. I rarely go out without drinking, but I don't grab for a bottle of Jim Beam when I wake up in the morning, so I think I'm doing okay.

Four pints of Guinness came to 16 bucks and I tacked on a four dollar tip; I didn't catch a buzz, but it made me tired and bloated. I also spilled a bunch while clapping, initially unbeknownst to me, all over my jacket.

Last night's shitty, rainy weather gave way to a beautiful day today--must have been in the 70s--which awoke the tiny flies that come out in the spring and gather in the doorways of the stores downtown. They just kind of buzz around and disappear a few weeks later. A few of them got into the office today and instinctively gathered by the door to the main room--three of them circling around each other in a random pattern. One of those little guys just got trapped in my arm hair. It must have known I was talking about it.

I can't stop my leg from shaking; it makes the toys on the bookshelf in front of me squeak in their plastic packages. It's really annyoing, but I can't stop doing it anyway.

God, that's so annoying.