Migrane Boy

The smeared words handwritten in black marker on B.A.'s fat, sweaty, hairy belly last night pretty much sums up how I feel today.

Kill Me

Last evening began with oven baked steak marinated in herb and garlic chimichurri sauce with sides of rice and steamed green beans in olive oil and pepper. Unfortunately, my choice in film to accompany my meal was a documentary on the high levels of fecal coliform in India's Ganges River (editor's note: don't ask). The quick cuts to images of what looked just like my steak floating by the wrinkled breasts of elderly Indian woman bathing in sewage water made for a quick meal indeed.

Library Girl was the first to arrive. After making herself a quick salad in what was once her old kitchen with what are now my new utensils we gulp wine. I let her beat me in electronic darts a few times as we discuss all of the excitement in her life and the lack of it in my own. Shortly thereafter the rest of the posse arrives. With each passing hour and empty beer can I forget the fact that I have to work in 8 hours.... 7 hours... 6 hours...

While Library Girl heads to cloud nine the rest of us make our way to Stage Nine. Blandy and I squeeze up front. Being that close to a shirtless B.A. you feel much like those gorillas faced with the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. You kind of want to touch it, but the fear of just what it will do to your conception of reality holds you back.

My posse leaves early so I get my "one beer too many" and pull out of my repertoire a few choice wall leans and furrowed brows. With only four hours until my shift starts and the spins, I cut out on the Minks set early and head home to my hot water bottle and new comforter. After a late night phone discussion in which my general pessimistic views on life are made all the more hilarious by my high level of intoxication I pass out for a moment before it's up and off to work.

Actual conversation:

Supervisor: You smell like beer and you look terrible, Pizza Diarist.
Pizza Diarist: That's because I slept in these clothes last night. And I think I'm still drunk.
S: Ha ha. You're so funny, Pizza Diarist.
PD: Yeah, I've been told I'm funny when I'm drunk.
S: ...
PD: ...
S: Get to work.