Saturday. Again. Online. Again. Hung over. Again. I'm finally getting used to the hang over yellow skin, half-closed eyes, and ass dry mouth. It's the tiredness that sucks. The problem with drinking too much and not sleeping is well, the next day. And shit does the next day always come much too quickly.
Heather will have me cleaning the house soon. So I'm enjoying the slacker time while it lasts. I like having a clean house, but would rather have a small army of brown people clean it for me. All the neighbors have various teams of people who show up once each week with vacuums and cleaners and paper towels and various undocumented dialects. And poof. Their house is clean. If only keeping up with the Jones' didn't require so much cash. Perhaps I'll steal one of these little brown cleaning dynamos and keep him in my basement for my own private use. Alas, I do not believe the Jones' would allow one of their cleaning staff to disappear. This is too bad, I hear they make fabulous mojitos.
Tonight we're heading to the Peabody Essex Museum to see my friend Dane sing. That should be swell, and will likely be served with at least several martinis. This will inevitably turn into a hang over, and the next day. I'm afraid of change, so this pattern of drinking and the next day might be just what I need. Either that or some good old fashioned monkey lovin.
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It is much later in the day. And we haven't yet cleaned the house. In fact, we haven't done much of anything. Heather's not feeling well, so she'd gone off to watch the telly. I joined in a while ago and caught the end of The White Rapper Show, which was followed by Snoop Dogg's Rags to Riches special. I am now convinced that fat white chicks should not go out in public, much less rap with New York beeyatch-like accents on cable television. I have to pay for cable, so I should get what I want. And I do not want fat rapping white chicks. This reminds me of the t-shirt with the "no fat chicks" logo. Holy shit, I hope that I'm not becomming a Texan.
I don't believe that Jesus is the saviour. I don't believe every American must own a gun. I have at least one black friend. I hate George W. Bush and, well, conservatives and neoconservatives and the religious right and the rest of the republicunts. Phew. I'm not a Texan.
I fucking hate VH1: it is the most evil shit fucking channel in the history of television, and it should be stopped. But I'm not the guy to put an end to it. I'll leave that for someone else. All I ask is to be texted when it's done.
I believe we're still heading out tonight, which means that I should at least wash some clothes. And take a shower. I'd rather not leave the house smelling as I currently do.
Damn these hang over blues. I'm not sure if hang over is one or two words or whether it should be hyphenated. I don't much care at the moment, so it will remain two words as I have typed it.
The alcoholic's conscience is kicking in: I should probably take a night or two off from the sauce. It's not likely that I'll heed this advice. But it sounds like the right thing to do. For my liver. And my increasingly distended stomach. Oh, and Heather might like it if we made it through a conversation without my speech slurring or my eyes going wonky.
That's all for now. I've got a few blogs to check up on before logging off for the night.