the BRUTAL, UGLY truth of my FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL life.
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9:10 p.m. + 2004-11-11 = for better or for worse.
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should one keep drinking one's stout out of a can with a corky-thinger in it, in addition to having one shot of whiskey mixed with ice-cold 12 oz. of cherry-ginger-ale, [and make a brilliant 2bean balsamico deli-style salad in the meanwhile]... one would most-certainly find oneself slightly drunk... on a "sunday night". "monday" morning is tomorrow. 5am. and whatever-is-looming-on-the-horizon still hasn't returned from Target to finish our conversation. [which better not interfere with me making him dinner tomorrow night.... it's been FAR too long since i've cooked for anyone.]
damnit. my hands smell of garlic. [[and i've no stainless steel spoon with which to awash and render them odorless.]]
[[[oh, and now it's patty griffin i st. f paul westerberg]]].
[[[[i should really go to bed soon.]]]]
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comments?? --->[thisaway]--->[[looks to me as though there are...]]---> 0 repercussions thus far
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[prologue] *** [epilogue] ***[plottwist!]
[[erstwhile]] ***** [[forthwith]]
