I feel like hunter s. thompson

Saturday: drive to Marina del Rey. Get drunk.
Sunday: wake up hungover after 5 hours of sleep, race to the Brewery with plans to take a trip to the desert, trip is aborted due to friends who are even more hungover than I, start drinkin' at noon, see Radiohead 13 miles from the Mexican border that night, get home at 3 pm, get three hours of sleep.
Monday: race to work to be there before 9. On three hours of sleep. Feel vaguely ill. Leave work at 4 pm because you feel like shit. I wonder why...
Monday night: I have a cold. Have two shots of whiskey--that helps colds, doesn't it? Also knock back some leftover Robitussin. Then go downtown to drink with friends in a seedy hotel bar. Have two drinks. Get pretty blitzed. Get back home, call a boy. He comes over. Get really loaded with him on whiskey with lemonade. Pass out around 2 am.
Tuesday morning, 6 am: Call in sick to work. You really ARE sick. Yes. You have a cold.
You are also hungover, maybe still dizzy, but you definitely ARE sick, ill, and should not be in an office environment right now. No.
Tuesday 10 am: Wake up again, putter around, make eggs and bacon.
Tuesday noon: Cute boy wakes up. Eat breakfast, then drive to beach for coffee. Coffee is good. I cough some. My nose is stuffy. My ears are stuffed up too. I truly DO have a cold. Yep.
Tuesday afternoon: Cute boy rushes off, late for work. Putter around house, feel sick, take nap.
Tuesday night: Woken up by phone call from absolute drunk / brilliant writer whom you fell for and are trying to get over. You have been having a small amount of success at this. He wants a ride to the birthday party for another man you fell in love with and subsequently DID get over, succesfully. When you ask him why he wants a ride he says it is because he wants to get drunk at the party. You can't argue with that. Nap another 15 minutes. Wake up, feel weird, take a Valium.
Later Tuesday night: Pick up said drunkard writer, drive to Barbara's at the Brewery, drink lots of vodka, wear tinfoil hats for birthday party. Laugh a lot. Party breaks up around 11:30. Drive the writer home. He swears he is hammered but seems in complete posession of his faculties.
Really fucking early Wednesday morning: Drink gin and beer with drunk writer at his home while you peruse the internet together. Listen to stories read aloud, discuss writing. Get pretty fucking loaded.
Wednesday morning: Sleep there with the writer. He snores really loud. Ugh. Wake up at six a.m., swig a leftover beer, drive home, leaving the writer there to snore on his own with just the cat. Stop at Rite Aid, coughing, pick up NyQuil and Robitussin and pseudephedrine (decongestant, also a stimulant). Arrive at home, swig the NyQuil and Robitussin, eschew the pseudepedrine 'cos it'll just keep you up. Call work, tell them you'll be in in the afternoon. Your cough is getting worse. Sleep.
Wednesday late morning: Wake up dizzy and swing out of bed feeling like you're waltzing around the room. Wonder how your liver is handling all this. Cough. Call doctor, make appointment. The cough will need to be handled and the only thing that fixes it is codeine syrup, so you have to check in with the dr. for that, as it is a controlled substance. Find your current state amusing, especially since you are reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas right now, and you yourself are seeing things blurrily, squinting to align your vision. Decide it's worth documenting before you go back to sleep, so you write it in your blog.

Sleep again.


I'd also like to confirm that I still have't gotten laid in months. And I'm actually kind of happy about that. So all the "sleeping" documented above really is just that. Sleeping.

For me, right now, it's better this way.