Love and Rockets

I think I successfully washed the taste of last Halloween out of my mouth over the last two nights. An interesting combination of various liquors lead to a blurry memory of hitting my bed at 4am and waking up at noon on Saturday and Sunday. Or maybe it was a bit past noon.

I'm surprised at the ravenous interest the crackheads who frequent my back alley have in fireworks.

Twenteen has entered my vocabulary as a noun (thank you Cian). As in, "how is your twenteen-year-old girlfriend doing?" ... the correct response being, "she isn't my girlfriend."

I'm not surprised, but a bit bemused by my inclination to give my phone number to girls who are far too young for me -- when I am sufficiently drunk, of course

My inability to deal with overwhelming social situations can be masked by a few shots of Yager and a couple Stellas. Explaining that to people who are trying to talk to me while I'm downing shots always comes across sounding lame and alcoholic.

Last year I wrapped myself in leather and found myself making out on the dancefloor at a party (I remember it like I was in a lame movie where they swing the camera around the main character in an attempt to approximate being visually impaired) -- I can now say that I believe the leather was constricting blood flow to my head; possibly keeping it somewhere below my waist.

Everyone who missed The Fever show: it was excellent.

Last night, I dreamt I was fighting to save the sad remains of our world after a supernatural apocalypse.