I wish I could tell you that I had but one drink and put it down after it had calmed my nerves. But alas, I cannot. I also wish I could tell you that I got so sloppy drunk that I wandered the halls of my apartment building, looking for a cute neighbor to neck with. Alack, this is also not what happened. I wish I could tell you that I drank my JD on the rocks, like a cool cat, and fell back on the couch listening to some Sonny Rollins. But no. I wish I could tell you that I drank it in several quickly swallowed shots while listening to some loud, angry Guns and Roses. (That's actually this weekend.) I wish I could tell you that I got home, got into my pyjamas and poured a class of coke and rather a lot of whiskey and sipped it quietly while watching my new Homicide: Life on the Streets DVDs until I fell into a drunken slumber....wait! I can tell you that! Because that's exactly what I did!
I'm so sad.
What happened to the wild drinking days? The dancing on the speakers at the Owl, followed by debauchery with a cute boy by the pool table, capped off with a late night dinner of overpriced chinese food upstairs at the student paper with good friends who'd never dream of splitting the bill evenly when I just had spring rolls and they had the dinner for one.
What happened to the girl who once passed out in the bar bathroom, only to be awakened by a chinese exchange student poking her and saying "You bad! You very bad! What is your numbah? I call!" and then waving a cell phone in her face? What, huh?
Right. She woke up the next day hungover and swore she wasn't doing that again. And the following night and the following day, she woke up again and swore on her mother's good name that she was REALLY, SERIOUSLY NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN. EVER. NO, REALLY. I DEFINITELY MEAN IT THIS TIME. PINKY SWEAR.
Man, that was a bad night. On the one hand, my roommate's boyfriend finally got to see what the inside of the girl's bathroom looked like when he came in and carried me to his jeep. He carried me, people. I'm not exactly a little slip of a thing. Good thing my roommate has the sense to date a very tall, strong man.
Of course, pinky swears ain't worth much. I mean, they're no spit-shakes or blood oathes. And I don't enter into those lightly.
So wow. It's been a long time since my last update. After my dedicated following (two people) complained that I hadn't updated in almost a month, I knew it was time to get busy. I don't want this project to fall by the wayside simply because I've gone and done something silly like gotten a job.
Besides. It's been a year. Seriously. A year give or take a few days, since I've had this diary and I cannot tell you how surprised I am that I have been updating it with any regularity. Usually, I take on projects like this and drop them, likely because something shinier has crossed my path. So colour me ecstatic that it's been a year and Geek Chic is still going strong. Thanks to everybody who reads these blatherings (and to everybody who has arrived here on a google search somewhere along the lines of "Sex with your mom"...well, god speed, you sickos.)
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A coupla' things:
1. I'm thinking about changing layouts again, and I'd like to get a personal layout done and I wondered if anybody had any suggestions or luck, or perhaps, generosity to either recommend somebody who could do a new template for me, or actually, you know, do it.
I've got some ideas, and I'm open to suggestions. I can't pay much, but I would definitely be willing to pay, either with actual cash (okay, Canadian money, but so?) or a gift of some kind.
2. Warren Zevon. You really should have had your own entry. Don't worry. I'll include you in a future round of Celebrity Harem Papers. Until then, Aoooooooo!!! Werewolves of heaven! (That should be a show on the WB, n'est ce pas?)
3. Guy who lives beside me? SHUT THE HOLY HELL UP! It's 4 a.m.! Who are you talking to??? If you've tied somebody up and are holding them hostage, forcing them to listen to your crazy, deluded ramblings, I'll totally call the cops on your ass. If, on the other hand, you're just batshit, Michael Jackson insane, then you go about your business sir. The rhinestone gloves can be purchased from a friendly neighbourhood costume shop, but the designer surgical masks are a specialty item, I'm afraid.
4. Homicide RULES! You with DVD players and a love of good television (an oxy moron, I know) get thee to a DVD outlet and rent or purchase Seasons 1 and 2 of Homicide: Life on the Streets on DVD. And when you've got them, you set yourself up a little shrine and say four Our Meldricks and five Hail Pembletons. And you pray for a quick delivery of season 3 or I will find you and hurt you.
5. I'm just kidding about the hurting you part. I'm full of good spirit and hot whiskey and I urge everybody to have a good day tomorrow. Take a moment, sip that coffee, breathe in some air, notice what's around you and enjoy your damn freedom, okay? Peace. It's what's for dinner. Oh no, wait. That's peas. Nevermind.
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