No booze but plum booze
I am all fired up, having just seen the Three Random Words in the Portland. And here I am at home now alone after 1 in the anus mundi with nothing to say, nothing to do, and more importantly nothing to drink but a phial of heinous Romanian triply distilled plum wine. That and a can of Irish Guinness, which, F that. This is an emergency, not a Special Occasion.
For now I've nothing to show for the night but an acute case of sleep-impossiblizing sobriety, although the photos will soon be developed. The wonders of finding a disposable camera in your ex' car. I wonder what the first 11 will reveal. With any luck they'll show her new Aryan bum-fireworks-giving boyfriend in compromising and I hope illegal situations. At the very least, I can deface them savagely.
We went, after the show (in a venue with a fascistical No Smoking/No Leaving/ No returning policy) to the Brian Behan. Not Behan; Ború maybe? Some Irsh dive with a $2.50 Guinness/Bass/someothercrap-on-Sunday policy: Excellent choice of bar, there, Stani. Why thank you my friend. And for the first time of the night I could have a proper drink, read "with a cigarette". There was a balcony on which we were illegally permitted to smoke outside. And there was downstairs a sign reading NO SMOKING OR DOGS BEYOND THIS POINT (I got a picture). Fucking Portland. First they come for the smokers, then they come for the dogs. It's enough to make me see redstate.
OK, diary, that's enough for now. Maybe I'll reacquaint myself with my old friend Todd (do you know Todd?) but for sure I'm plumb going to hit the plum vodka and hope that it doesn't up and hit me in the stonecold gut and straightup force me to hit the head. Assuming it doesn't, it'll be the dullest crap I find on the tv to trick my eyes into fatigue so I can get maybe 5h of the shuteye time. After which I'll work, rinse, and repeat. La cirque de la vie.
For now I've nothing to show for the night but an acute case of sleep-impossiblizing sobriety, although the photos will soon be developed. The wonders of finding a disposable camera in your ex' car. I wonder what the first 11 will reveal. With any luck they'll show her new Aryan bum-fireworks-giving boyfriend in compromising and I hope illegal situations. At the very least, I can deface them savagely.
We went, after the show (in a venue with a fascistical No Smoking/No Leaving/ No returning policy) to the Brian Behan. Not Behan; Ború maybe? Some Irsh dive with a $2.50 Guinness/Bass/someothercrap-on-Sunday policy: Excellent choice of bar, there, Stani. Why thank you my friend. And for the first time of the night I could have a proper drink, read "with a cigarette". There was a balcony on which we were illegally permitted to smoke outside. And there was downstairs a sign reading NO SMOKING OR DOGS BEYOND THIS POINT (I got a picture). Fucking Portland. First they come for the smokers, then they come for the dogs. It's enough to make me see redstate.
OK, diary, that's enough for now. Maybe I'll reacquaint myself with my old friend Todd (do you know Todd?) but for sure I'm plumb going to hit the plum vodka and hope that it doesn't up and hit me in the stonecold gut and straightup force me to hit the head. Assuming it doesn't, it'll be the dullest crap I find on the tv to trick my eyes into fatigue so I can get maybe 5h of the shuteye time. After which I'll work, rinse, and repeat. La cirque de la vie.
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