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This Is Me, Hung-Over
13 August 2003
4 11:19

I have taken, of late, to indulging in every hedonistic pleasure I can find. Very nearly every night since my return has turned into a booze or smoke fest. This morning, I regard the world through bleary eyes, with a slow quiet throb in my brain, a minor quease in my gut, and perhaps a little shake in my hands. I'm thinking this morning that hangovers are beautiful, though, as I aggressively slouch (I'm practically lying down in my desk chair with my feet propped on the footstool, which I brought from home, beneath my desk.) at my computer reading Slutboy2, who is a hell of a story-teller, as he's made me laugh loudly and nearly cry several times this morning already. (Don't bother following the link; it's password-protected, and I think he should have a rule that he'll only give you the key if you promise to read ALL of it.) I'd love to stop, but I love it so much! It's really not a problem, I assure you, merely a stage, a phase, a brief period of bad behaviour. It will, in fact, stop very soon, as I have other things to do than drink and smoke and sleep (though I bought some yummy cherry cavendish pipe tobacco yesterday afternoon, so I have to have a smoky-treat tonight, and then, I shall stop for awhile. I am at work. I have nothing to do. There is a thirty-four day space behind me filled with things about which to write, and let's face it: that is really what I want to do.

This realisation really struck me as I wandered through the Yale Bookstore this morning. I had gone there with the intention of buying an over-priced litre of Diet Pepsi (which I did), but on entering the shop, I was overwhelmed at the smell of bookstore. Typically, because this bookstore sells so bloody many other things, the smell of books is dissipated; not so this morning. I was intoxicated by the aroma of all that paper covered in ink, of all those words, all those thoughts. I wanted to sit down on the floor and read every volume in the place and cry like a baby at the beauty of it all. I glanced at a few of the new releases whose titles or authors' names caught my eye (Our Father Who Art in a Tree, Suzan-Lori Parks, who used to teach at the Yale Drama School -- the two are unrelated, by the way, as the title I mentioned is penned by a lovely blond woman from Australia who now lives in Gloucestershire, but whose name I cannot remember), then carefully scanned the table of current books from Yale authors (It occurs to me that were I published, I, too, would be a Yale author.), most of which are non-fiction of some sort, to see if I recognised any of the names. (I did. Michael Johnston (In the Deep Heart's Core) was in my graduating class, and Dahlia Lithwick (Me vs. Everybody -- you can also read why she's my favourite loyah at slate.msn.com. Interestingly, her bio on the book fails to mention her undergraduate degree from Yale, but makes much of her co-author's law degree from the university -- the signed copies are signed by him, not her, which is regrettable.) is part of the reason for my fascination with the Supreme Court.) I managed not to be sucked into the magazine section, where I doubtless could have sat staring at pretty pictures and sniffing fragrant paper for hours. The visit, though, served to remind me how very much I want to spend my waking hours being creative, rather than sitting around on my growing arse waiting for something to go wrong with someone's computer.

Hmm...My roots are growing out, so since I used no hair product this morning, I look like a Jolly Rancher Peach tiger who can't decide which season it is. I do not know what to do about this.

There is an absolutely adorable consultant or client or something of that sort sitting at a rather large meeting at the front conference table. I want to snog him senseless, but somehow, I do not think that would be a very good move, professionally.

I am tired of gay men. Well, most of them, anyway. More detail on this later. Last night's debauchery involved going to Mitch's house, drinking vodka and tonic, smoking, watching Boy Meets Boy, dashing off to meet SoccerBoi (Remember him? Well, now that he's no longer convinced I'm in love with him (good, 'cause I'm not, though I do think he's painfully charming), we're back to hanging out together every now and again, and sometimes even having sex, which is an added bonus. We had an interesting discussion last night, in which he intimated that he doesn't like his penis, which is just absurd; certainly, it's not the largest I've ever encountered, but I quite like it and think it's very nice, quite adequate, and aesthetically, very pleasing. So put THAT in your pipe and smoke it!) for more drinking, and inserting into conversation with each of my friends at the bar at some point the line, "I'm just a little bit fucked-up." Indeed. Everybody loves him. Nobody even likes me. I just don't get it.

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