Maybe Emerson, Lake & Palmer Were Onto Something

There's a beautiful Latina in my room, and right now I'm trying to keep the typing clickety-clack down to a minimum even though I know she's out for the night. I look at her, right between the brokendown dresser and the TV.

And if you're expecting this to be a story about a one-night stand...you obviously don't know the propietor of this blog/life.

It is truly remarkable on a day that saw me run around with chicken quesadillacitos while bosses figuratively slept, dodged bullets about my personal life, only missed on two of the first day March Madness games (I knew I should've picked UAB, fuck the SEC less UK) and get thrown for a loop when the most attractive of my bosses said she might come to the birthday party (didn't) in which the guest of honor showed up for three seconds and up and vanished like a fart in the wind, that things would somehow get weirder.

This is the definition of my life...

After a slow start, things are turning around. The drink specials are working, the pimp cup has yet to slightly unalign, I still have my World Title. (There you go, Mattie.) And best of all, the pimp cup is working as automatic introduction and opening topic. So the past and the birthday boy is forgotten; in lieu of the actual celebration sometimes you have to party like they're there in the hopes they get there. I am fast becoming the dark meat in a brunette sandwich and the dominoes are falling right the pike like they should.

Let me give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He's a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do, I swear for His own amusement, his own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It's the goof of all time. Look but don't touch. Touch, but don't taste. Taste, don't swallow. Ahaha. And while you're jumpin' from one foot to the next, what is he doing? He's laughin' His sick, fuckin' ass off. He's a tight-ass. He's a sadist. He's an absentee landlord. Worship that? Never.
--Pacino, Devil's Advocate

So everything's dandy until one of my friends barrels down the stairs and nearly plows the fucking lot of us down. Oh, it's bad--she's supposed to drive home. And another one of my friends is gone already, left for quieter climes the commited folk seem to dig. So I drag her out of the club, and we have to go back to the car and he has to drive. I have gone from heaven to purgatory. Two hot brunettes to watching a bottle blonde spew three times, and roll out the guest comforters for the second time in my life. It shouldn't take 2 minutes to go up stairs.

Needless to say, some people are going to be brought to fucking justice. But right now, there's a thing to wait out and my favorite episode of Celebrity Poker Showdown to try and stay awake through.

Damn it all to blood-spewing, pus-gutted hell.

Ambient music: Peter Gabriel - Digging in the Dirt