I think perhaps I'll convince my roomates never to let me diary under the alkafluence of Inkahol ever again.

Ten minutes and I have to go to work.

Sixteen tons and whaddaya get...

11.13.02 - 10:28 p.m.

Got offa work an hour and a half ago. Spent half hour before cleaning cat hair offa Philip Marlowe (who is a fedora, mind you, albiet with a mind of his own) and spending the aftermath making tacos and cultivating a serious drunk. Not in opposition to my rather random Grantaires, mind you, and Laura's visiting one, although he seems rather more inclined to hover about looking soberly concerned. Something he is really quite good at, mind you. Dear, dear boy.

Yes, but wherefore the pisstivity? I am HOMESICK. And home is California. Hell, it's Sacramento. I should be there right now, Babbit pouring onto my shoulder and going to Colleen's funeral on friday. I should be scowling into an iced white mocha at the Open Book, or getting plastered at Faces, instead of this frozen hole.

I think three is the number after which alchohol really starts to be a depressant. That and Tori in the background. Boys for P�l�. Um.

Nevermind what else I'm supposed to be doing. I am working too much, and not getting paid well enough for it, and apparently, part time retail is too much money for social servies to give a damn whether we've got heat or not. Talk about abasing yourself totally. And I /should/ be going back there for food stamps. Then I could use more of my little monies for booze.

mmm. Good tacos.

<<agé chose>>

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