I Say Don't You Know, You Say You Don't Know...

There's an episode of the X-Files where no matter what Scully and Mulder do, a bank holdup ends up with everyone--themselves included--dying. Well, at least until the last go-round, otherwise the series would've ended much sooner.

I've had a bad night.

Started with work, which sadly in retrospect was the highlight of the day. So, after work, I have dinner and it suddenly occurs to me with the heat wave suddenly dying I might want a coat later. A coat I do not have. But I rationalize it away by figuring I'll be mostly inside, and will be sweating so much a coat will only make things worse.

I hit the club, and it earns a third strike. First two strikes on St. Patrick's Day, where I lost the World Title and instead of spreading a brunette sandwich got to watch my friend puke 10 Irish Car Bombs and her small intestine. But I chalk those off to a freak occurence. Despite the Clash's catchy tune, lightning doesn't strike twice, right? I sip drinks watching some 80-year-old guy hit on all the girls (which, quite frankly, was the best thing I'd ever seen in my life) and a guy who looks like he broke free from the Killers moving like a diabetic who hasn't gotten their daily dose of the insulin. It's not a matter of who, but of which, right?

Wrong. Despite that the floor was populated with more lanky uncoordinated white stiffs than have been seen in North America since the 1989 Milwaukee Bucks, I get shut out. Shut out. I never get shut out, but it happens tonight. Oh, and somebody steals my $30 retro Kangol hat, to boot.

So I head to the spot to see Liz and drown my sorrows in a fine hot chocolate.

No Liz.

Suck.

I lean against the wall for the bathroom, now mad I have to kill an hour or so here anyway until I can get home. I look inside to find out what the new flavor of the month is for future references and visits.

Fare Thee Well, one of those little whiteboards says.

Liz, 7/29, it says.

SUCK.

So there I sit in never-never land, and after the initial shock of it wears off I wonder if there's anything else I can be doing. Turns out, I can be checking my voicemail and getting a message from Rebecca inviting me to a party on the assumation I wouldn't be doing anything. Oh, and she Wants To Talk.

I cannot get home soon enough.

There are no cabs.

I start walking, and great, one's across the street at the 7/11.

Would anybody care to guess what comes next?

That's right, the cab doesn't go.

So he says about 15 minutes and I start walking some more, and since I'm black and it's about 4 in the morning I seriously doubt I'm going to get a shitload of cabs coming my way. My crush is disappearing, my almost-girlfriend's got me on the morphine drip, I threw an 0-fer in the club, and as I continue to walk it's about 50/50 as to whether I want to live to make it home or get shredded in a violent hail of gunfire.

The cab is fixed enough for me to get here.

That's comforting. Now all I have to worry about is watching my Quadrangle disintegrate into a straight line over the course of the week, if Rebecca still wants me, if I deserve it, if this club has become bad luck or if I should start putting up LOST: One mojo. If Found, Contact B. Rosser signs, and the fact my job highlighted my day just because of the lack of suck.

In semi-related news, that new Nine Inch Nails song is pretty sweet.

This post brought to you BAH: "Novocaine For The Soul" by eels