Morbid little thoughts

Oh the joys of being single. Basically what I’ve taken from it is that if I die, it will be the smell that eventually leads my neighbors to the reality of my demise. Oh sure I have some friends that might worry but they are out of town so it would take awhile. My editor (if you’re reading this then you suck Steve, and may you get stuck between a shark and an underwater zombie!) at work might wonder but he doesn’t have my address. And if it’s early in the week near deadline he’ll never even notice.

Thankfully my apartment thinks it’s in the Sahara so decomposition should happen pretty quickly. Yay for the little things. Oh crap what if I die in the winter?

I’m wondering if I should start some sort of phone tree just incase I die. Sure I talk to people online but I’ve been absent this past week (due to no internet in the new place) and no one has wondered if I’m dead yet. Ok I’ve been around during the day but still…

Sometimes you have to break a couple eggs

I’ve been in my place for about a week now but I hadn’t actually made any food there. So this morning I decided that it was time for me to make breakfast.

So I walked around the corner and headed in to some high-end market. It was one of those granola places where everything is a good 20 percent more than chain markets, but it’s so close and I wasn’t getting a lot.

I have only one frying pan and no baking sheet, so I decided to scramble up some eggs — even I can do that.

Well I also don’t have a bowl so I broke the eggs in the frying pan and put the rest on the back burner, as my counter is rather full of random stuff right now.

So I turned on the burner but noticed that nothing was happening. It sounded like the gas was going but I couldn’t see anything. I looked up and noticed bright orange flames working their way up the carton and starting to engulf my newly purchased eggs. Actually the eggs were starting to cook inside their shells so I mean, at least technically, I was cooking something.

Yep, I had turned on the wrong burner. After a lot of smoke and yelling I was able to get the fire out, and my neighbor was kind enough to give me a huge fan, (imagine the back of those Florida swamp airboat thingy) which was able to remove the smoke.

My first independent act in my new home and I’m a complete failure. I almost burned down my apartment of less than a week. There will be drinking tonight, thankfully I can open a bottle; I’ve had a shitload of practice at that.

Kickball

Although I have been going to school at SJSU for over a year I am still pretty new to the San Jose area. I have a couple of friends that I can bug but that's about it. So I decided it was high time for me to go out and meet some people. And where better to meet people than at a pickup kickball game?

The mixture of people was so random and the game itself was so fun. I met a bunch of cool people and there are even plans to go check out the free Flogging Molly show on Thursday. And really if you can't have fun playing kickball than you are dead inside.

We played at some elementary school, and one couple was kind enough to bring beers. Most of the people didn't know each other and it was just a great way to talk to people that are obviously as juvenile as I am. Although it was decided that next time more beer needs to be brought by all.

My kickball skills aren't up to par with what they were in the fourth grade but I got better as the afternoon progressed. I played pitcher, and my team one ... twice.

Afterwards we went to Aqui for some beers. I'm probably a little tipsy but oh well. It was fun and I would definitely recommend it to everyone. Where else are you going to meet a guy from Oklahoma who's twang only comes out after a few beers, a royally tatted up guy who teaches English to impoverished kids and a guy who is fanatical about kickball rules all in the same day?

And the best part was I met some cool girls who I can actually see hanging out with. I mean how can you not like a chick that's into kickball?

The whole time I was smiling and didn't think about the things that have been bringing me down lately. Maybe I'm starting to like San Jose?

Pampering

I got my first facial the other day. And it was great, but I also thought it was a tad bit on the odd side. It kind of seemed like the esthetician was trying to seduce me.

I mean I get there and they offer me a beverage. Then this woman with a sultry, low voice and perfectly coiffed hair leads me through a dimly lit labyrinth (which I became completely lost in), to an area in the back where I was told to strip and put on a robe.

After that I was led to another alcove where once again I was given a drink and then the lady (I forget her name so I'm going to call her Calliope because I like that name) came back and soaked my feet in some weird smelling bath.

Next we went into an even darker room, acoustic guitar music was piped in, where I was told to lose the robe and get under the covers. Calliope comes back in and starts talking in her hypnotic voice, I can't recall what she said but it lulled me into some sort of trance. Soon she started rubbing goo all over my face, before wrapping me up in a hot towel. She then gave me a neck, shoulder and arm massage before removing the goo and adding more goo but with a slightly different smell. I once again got a rub down (loved it), before she removed goo #2.

Finally she sprayed some mist on me and rubbed something else on my face. This was apparently the end of my session, and I must admit if she had been trying to seduce me I totally would have let her. Calliope, with sexy voice and magical hands, could have done whatever she wanted to me, I was so relaxed.

Of course when I left the spa and got into my car, my face was a scary, fire engine, splotchy red. But meh it was worth it. I will definitely have to do that again.

My castle

So I've got my shnazzy new place (shnazzy is defined as about the size of a closet but with a stove), and today I decided to clean it as my landlord's definition of clean and my definition didn't seem to match up. So I rented one of those lovely steam cleaners and dragged it up to the third floor, vowing to hit the gym so that I can carry slightly heavy items more than five feet without stopping and gasping for breath, when I finally got to my apartment I realized I had accidentally rented a place whose location randomly shifts to the surface of the sun.

After a few hours I think I lost 30 pounds of water weight and I get to repeat the process tomorrow. But at least now I can sit on the floor without feeling like I'm going to get hepatitis.

Now I just need to move all my furniture in, oh wait I don't have any furniture and I'm pretty sure when my friends see the stairs they are going to run for the hills (thankfully those are probably on fire so they will have no choice but to help me move).

Wireless

Sick of borrowing shoddy Internet from my neighbors I went out and purchased a wireless router yesterday. And I swear “tech” sales people are the most misogynistic guys around, I get more respect from mechanics. I get asked about 30 times if I was sure that I could do this myself, and if I was comfortable using computers? The manager highly suggested I get the inhome installation so that they could set up security, after all they were “certified.” He looked very skeptical that I could set it up without help.

After taking five minutes to set the whole thing up I’m pretty sure a retarded monkey could get certified. You plug a freakin cord in and then you run a CD. Why the hell would I pay $100 for some greasy-faced asshole to invade my home to do this?

But I now have Internet so I’m happy, no more websites crashing just as I’m paying a bill, no more gmail chat kicking me off just when a friend is about to say something interesting, and finally being able to quickly download porn, I must watch two girls one cup again with out it starting and stopping so often — I feel like I missed parts.

I'm ready for my close up

So Friday, after the debacle that was my flat tire, I came into work thoroughly wind blown and frazzled. Instead of getting to work I decided I needed some cookies and some Internet surfing time.

As I was sitting at my desk drinking a coke and munching on Oreos (no I did not dunk them in the coke and I don’t twist the tops off either) I saw the editor and the photographer talking. I heard my name come up and then they both turned to look at me.

“Colleen has a lot of hair,” this coming from my editor.

Now I was confused, the quantity of my hair has never come up in conversation with either of these two before, actually we’ve never discussed anything with regards to my hair before (which I think is for the best). Then I find out that they need a model for next week’s issue and the criterion is: a lot of hair.

Also I think they wanted cheap and easy, wait that doesn't sound good.

So I head down to the “studio” (a little nook by the break room where we have to move around a big table and chairs) and for the next hour the photographer (who is a really cool guy but I’m pretty sure he was laughing at me the whole time) had me flip my hair around while trying to stick out my hip, and curve my torso in a way that is physically impossible. Needless to say I almost fell down a half dozen times and afterwards I was very dizzy.

But Monday came and apparently the pictures just didn’t work. So off to the “studio” again, but this time not only was the photographer there but the editor and the art director joined as well. Good times.

Actually in the end it was quite fun, except for the slightly tweaked neck, and I’m officially a cover model.


OK so you can’t tell it’s me, but in general I think that’s for the best. And the story is about being in debt so it also kind of fits.

Eleven years and counting

Saturday was my high school reunion, my eleven-year high school reunion. Sure most schools do 10 years but our class couldn't get our act together last year so it was slightly delayed.

I guess our class was always a bunch of slackers. During rallies and football games barely anyone showed up. And as a class that started with about 500 students our freshman year we ended with a little over 250. Not the best matriculation rate.

I guess any reunion is weird. What do you have in common with these people anymore? I have to admit though that there were a lot of really cool people that I never talked to in high school that I really enjoyed hanging out with last night.

Basically we went to a local pizza parlor and had pizza and beers for a couple of hours out on the patio. I was surprised at how many people had kids. I was really surprised to learn that one couple (who got married right after school) was expecting their fifth child.

It was really interesting to see what people were doing now, and how you would never have thought that a decade ago. One classmate, whom I had attended elementary school with) had become a luchadore (masked Mexican wrestler) for eight years (or that’s what he said and if he made it up kudos for a great story), one of the artiest girls ever turned into an engineer and there was a guy who laid oil pipelines down in Peru.

Later in the night, the families took off and a bunch of us headed down the block to what I’m sure is California’s last saloon. Boots hung from the ceiling and there were a lot of wranglers packed onto the stools. The AC didn’t work but the beers were cold and the patio was pretty nice by then.

Outside poor Deb was hassled by an old classmate, and my two other compatriots were tired so they took off. I stayed until a little after midnight hanging out with people I hadn’t talked to since the ’90s.

As I drove home I got a text that asked, “One more drink?”

And there’s always room for one more, so I changed course and headed to a local bar. That last one definitely put me over and I woke in a bit of pain this morning, but I guess reunions should not be done sober anyways.

And so it continues

I was driving to work, almost obeying the posted speed limit, thinking about everything I needed to get done today when a car pulls up next to me and the woman in the passenger seat starts gesturing wildly. I stared blankly back at her until she rolled down her window and informs me I have a flat tire.

Excellent, so I moved into the slow lane looking for a turn off when I hear a loud pop and my car pulls to the left. Well shit, I pull over on to the shoulder and shake my head. There’s something about me and freeways — I just like to be stranded on them. And I was only about five minutes away from work.

To top it all off I left my cell phone at home, this is the second time I’ve forgotten my cell phone and I’ve been stuck on a major freeway. Last time the accident was decent enough that a couple of cars stopped and called the police, this time I had to hoof it to the nearest call box, about a half mile behind me, and there was an exit in my path so I had to do a little traffic dodging. It was also about a thousand degrees out with gale force winds (or that could have just been the semis hauling ass past me).

I got to the call box and I talked to the nice lady who I’m pretty sure thought I’m an idiot for forgetting my cell phone, not having AAA and not knowing anyone’s phone number that could come and help. In my defense I do know two numbers; one is my old roommate from college who lives in San Diego and the other is my old boyfriend who probably wouldn’t appreciate the call. Note to self: try to memorize work’s number and that of at least one person who lives in San Jose. But at least a tow truck was on its way.

So I start my trek back to my car when I hear a honk behind me, and the slowing down of a car. I look back and it’s an old, faded green Chevy Astro Van. Now as a horror movie aficionado I should know better than to get anywhere near this guy, instead I basically skip over there and ask him what’s up. He was just being nice and offering to help but I told him I had a tow coming. Right as he was about to take off, a cop (with lights on) pulls up in front of us. I keep walking and the cop get out of his car and tells me to stop right there.

At this point I’m a bit confused as to why I’ve been told to stop but I do it because I’m not completely retarded. He then looks at the van, which suddenly decides to take off, and back at me.

“Where are you coming from?”

I laugh and tell him the car behind him, then go on to explain that I had to walk to the call box and that the guy in the van had just pulled over to be nice. I don’t think he believed me.

He then says that he’ll drive me back to my car as it is safer (my car is a good 200 yards away) but there is AC in his car so I’m excited. As we are about to take off the radio blares a thousand different codes. The officer then speaks for about five minutes with maybe two intelligible words spoken, which I translate into meaning “I’m taking a girl to her car.”

When we get there he talks code into his walkie talkie again, which I assume means, “We got there.”

Afterwards he tells me that whenever an officer transports a female they have to report the exact mileage he takes her, and that there had been incidents in the past. That didn’t really make me feel better. After about 20 minutes of sporadic, awkward conversation (he felt bad about leaving me on the side of the road) the tow truck shows up.

Now I’m kind of living out of my car right now, so to get to my extra tire I have to move the contents of my trunk into my back seat and the Bruce (the tow truck driver) is not amused. So about ten minutes later he gets started. And $70 later he finishes.

And I’m off to work two hours late — again.

I am lame

The day didn’t start off that bad. Ok I was two hours late to work but I don’t think anyone noticed, but it was all downhill from there. I decided that I wanted a burrito for lunch, so I got one that had everything in it and brought it back to the office. I then managed to spill its entire contents (chicken, beans, rice, sour cream, cheese and guacamole) all down the front of my pants. Not a pretty look. So I head down to the bathroom and try to clean it all off in the sink, frantically rubbing at my crotch as some older lady walks in pauses, gives me an odd look, then scurries into one of the stalls and hides there until I leave. I then go back to my desk in noticeably soaking wet pants.

I had plans with some friends later in the day so to kill time after work I decided to walk around downtown. As I head back to my car around 6:30, I see one of my coworkers taking off and he mentions that he set the alarm. I get to my car and realize that I don’t have my keys. I dump my purse on to my trunk convinced that maybe the keys were hiding behind that empty pack of orbitz bubblemint gum, but to no avail. Yep, they are sitting on my desk, locked in the office and protected by an alarm that I don’t have the code to. Wonderful. I vow (and I'm pretty sure this isn't the first time I've made this promise) to have an extra set of keys surgically implanted in my arm.

So I wait around for another hour for my friend to pick me up, by this time I’m hot and sweaty, pretty sure I don’t smell that great and my shoes, which are not made for walking, are pinching the living shit out of my poor toes. I’m standing outside and about every 30 seconds some guy drives by in some '80s POS, sporting a wife beater and decides to boost my self esteem by yelling or whistling at me, good times (one guy was kind enough to drive by three times). Finally my friend picked me up and we headed to dinner.

The next day I actually caught a few breaks.

I took the bus to work and it was spare the air day so the bus ride was free (took about 40 minutes though). And I like taking the bus, people watching on the bus is fun, staring at all the carefully blank faces wondering if they actually have personalities under those facades. There didn’t seem to be any fellow walk of shamers, but as I took a shower that morning I don’t think I was that obvious either.

My shoes continued to torture my feet on my mile walk from the bus stop to the office but thankfully I’m a chick and can usually push through footwear pains as long as the shoes are kind of cute.

Of course I felt like everyone I passed knew that these were the clothes from yesterday, I could feel the judgment radiating off the homeless man at Market and Santa Clara Street. Walking in the office I just kept my head down and ran for my desk. Thankfully I think most people think the editorial group is kind of odd anyways so I doubt anyone gave me a second look.

When I got to my desk, there they were. My keys were sitting on my notepad, all shiny and unused. Also I found that my boss is out for the day so I didn’t have to explain how retarded I am to him, which is good since he would point and laugh all day because that’s just who he is.

And to top it all off I had a change of clothes in my car and I found $3 in the parking lot! Yay me!

Parking tickets

I have this thing with parking tickets, I seem to collect them. I have three outstanding ones in San Mateo, San Jose (ok two in San Jose) and now, as of tonight, one in Walnut Creek. That's three different sections of the Bay Area, some that are separated by a bridge. Sure I would pay them but the moment after I get said parking ticket the stub seems to disappear. And it's not like I'm trying to not park correctly, but 2 hours tends to just fly by and I run out to my car to find that stupid white little envelope there. I wonder what would happen if I never paid them? Would they stick one of those boots on my car? How many tickets do you have to get before that happens? Because technically I'm at four. And is it per city or do you think they team up? And who keeps a meter running til 11 p.m. anyways that is just ridiculous. I think I'll just keep them in a drawer with my rejection letters for those days when I get too full of myself. Maybe this is just my version of civil disobediance, yep I'm protesting the disillusionment of the x/y generation with big government and their need to control every aspect of our lives by not paying my parking ticket. It's either that, or I'm lazy.

A challenge

I was 16 or 17 and this guy pulled into the gas station where I was filling up my extremely beat up Honda (back then I would pay for gas in change from the tips I made as a barista from a little coffee shop called Mocha Lisa, which has long gone out of business). But behind his pickup on a flatbed was this beautiful orange car. Sure it was faded and dusty and the tires were flat but you could tell it had potential. It just looked like it would be so much fun to drive. It was a 1970 Challenger and they have been one of my favorite cars ever since.

The owner came up asked me if I liked muscle cars. I didn’t know too much about them but like every other American I was a fan of early model mustangs. We then stood around as he talked about muscle cars and I decided that sometime in the future I was sooo going to get me one.

I still love cars but I know basically nothing about what goes on under the hood. Sure I can change the oil and tires but that’s about it (and if given the chance I don’t do those things). So the newer model of muscle cars that pay homage to their loud, heavy and fast ancestors, but also come with warrantees, are very tempting. And when I heard that Dodge was coming out with a new Challenger I knew I would want one. But I was a little worried; the new Charger leaves a lot to be desired.

So I was both delighted and saddened when I first saw the 2008 Challenger. It looks beautiful, its can get to 60 in 5, has a SRT-8 6.1L Hemi and it corners extremely tight. But the 2008 only comes in an automatic and of course the gas mileage is a bitch.

I mean what the hell!?!

I thought GM was the only company that was douchey enough to make fun cars minus the stick (I’m looking at you corvette, and no tiptronic does not count).

Ok so Dodge is already addressing the manual issue by giving the 2009 Hemi version the option of a 6 speed manual transmission. And the top of the line 6.1L Hemi will have an impressive 425-horse power under the hood so you really can’t bitch too much at that. But do I really have to wait another year? Not that I can afford the $40,000 price tag now or in a year but who cares, that’s what loans are for.

And it just looks so freaking hot. I want one (of the 2009 anyways the 2008 were all preordered).

The bad guy

Do you ever wonder: If my life was a movie what type of character would I be? First you have to figure out what genre you are in. Scifi/horror? Sadly, although it's my favorite, my life doesn't fall into that category (no aliens or knife wielding maniacs). Drama? Nope, although if I started fainting more maybe. So probably comedy, I get a laugh out of it anyways.

Next you go through the lists of your accomplishments. And it's not like you've ever killed anyone, but you start to realize that you aren't the hero. No you aren't even her frazzled hair friend that always makes witty comments, nope there's a good chance that you are the bad guy.

You go through the events that have led you up to where you are now, and yep it's true. That if people were watching your life they are probably wishing bad things on you and laughing when you inadvertently fall down the stairs. And you're not even a good villain, you're more one of those ones that no one is scared of, the ones that are laughably pathetic (in, hopefully, a slightly funny way).

Which is sad because I used to always think that if I got a chance to pick any role in a movie I would be the bad guy. they always seemed to have way more fun and they got really cool death scenes.

But to this I say no more. I think it might be time to truly explore my evil side. That's right no more rinsing dishes before they go in the dishwasher and I'm never letting anyone merge in front of me again.

Children

I've heard that caring for other people's children is the best birth control and I must say it is totally true. After a weekend with my sister's kids, whom I love, I'm very sure that I am not quite ready to have my own. I do want kids but just not any time soon.

And right now I'm in Utah where I'm pretty sure everyone has five kids and is expecting the sixth to pop out any time soon. Everyone looks tired. Almost makes one never want to have sex ever again just to be on the safe side — almost.

But to be honest I do like her kids they can be so sweet and cute. And even when they are being evil I can't seem to get mad at them, of course this is probably just guilt because I rarely get to see them, because well they live in Utah and it scares me out here.

When everything sucks

Oops apparently I’m not in the best of moods and it's seeping into my job. I’m supposed to be writing up little blurbs about bands and I was told the one I wrote just will not do.

“Before you check out Flock what you really should do is eat a shit load of peyote because that is the only way this bunch of acoustically challenged morons could be entertaining. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should. Mix in jazz saxophones, the av tech and a guy who just wants to be in a band, any band, and you get Flock, a visual and audio cluster fuck of epic proportions.”

So it’s back to the drawing board for me.

Curiosity

I’ve been looking for a room in San Jose and there are some disturbing ads on craigslist. In my short search I’ve seen two that wanted to fill a room with a “cute girl” for little or no rent with either some kind of compensation or massages. And one of the posts asked for a picture in all caps — twice.

And I’m so tempted to reply.

Not because I would ever live there but I want to see what these guys are like. What kind of person puts an ad out for that? Are they normal looking, are they the geekiest guys ever and thought that this was a genius idea, do they have weird growths that would actually impede them from getting sex in some normal way? I want to know!

Would they interview me and actually ask for sex? Do you need to bring references and possibly a clean bill of health? Are you the house bitch, and if so does that mean you can’t bring other people home? Would there be a schedule? Is there a list of dos and don’ts? Would there be a uniform of any type?

Not sure yet if I want to go to this place by myself. But if I’ll leave a note where I'm going it should be fine.

Stupid driving

I drove home last night, well I guess morning, at 3:30 a.m. it takes me an hour to get there. And while I was sober I was not awake. About twenty minutes into the drive I started dreaming. It was weird because I was still awake but for some reason I just couldn’t process the images coming into my head.

The reflectors ahead in the distance coupled with taillights became a two-headed serpent that writhed about in the road just ahead of me. A couple of blinks later and it was gone. A bush became a fat lumberjack that had no knees, and a shadow in the car became a weird pig-faced werewolf thing in my backseat (that one freaked me out a bit).

I turned the music up and the AC on but it didn’t really help. I know the road so well as I drive it everyday, but last night there were whole stretches that I can’t remember.

Thankfully there were no other cars on the road or I would have been screwed. I remember swerving a couple of times because I thought there was something in the road that wasn’t there. On the last stretch about a mile before home I screeched to a halt so I wouldn’t hit the tollgate. There’s no tollgate, but it took me a couple of seconds to realize it.

My head bobbed again and I knew I probably should have pulled over but a nice warm bed was only minutes up the road and I didn’t want to stop. I made it home and kind of sat dazed in the car for about five minutes before stumbling up to my room.

Next time I need to stop and get some coffee or something, that was just dumb.

Jobs

I used to get excited when school was over. Yeah the summer! But now when school is out it means I have to get a second job, give up my weekends and try to smile nicely at the world’s most retarded people.

I’ve had a crap load of jobs in my short life, some really mundane while some were pretty interesting. I kind of miss those stupid little jobs I had during high school and college, the ones that didn’t matter and that even while I hated the jobs I had fun while I was there. so here's an incomplete list of some of my working past.

I got my first job at 14 doing data inputting in a warehouse in Oakland, I crashed their system — twice.

I then worked at a lovely coffee house where I would come home smelling like double lattes and would use the nickels and dimes I got for tips to pay for gas, the attendant hated me.

I then moved on to a Pumpkin Farm (which my friend still owns), that was the best. All of my friends and I had really buff arms from throwing and catching pumpkins for two months.

This was followed by a few summers of waitressing where I learned humility, and that my old teachers were good tippers.

After that I was off to college and I graduated to bartending, where I gave alcoholics more alcohol. But they tipped really well and I had creepy guys always hitting on me so that was fun.

I then moved on to filing at a defense contractor, Sept. 11 hit and that job became no fun. Actually filing in general blows, and I love how managers feel the need to explain filing in great depth. I know the freakin alphabet lady back off.

After college I got a real job in marketing, which sucked, and was there for almost three years (I got hired by another company 3 months before my old job would have matched my 401k, how stupid am I?).

That last job was the only one I got fired from. I should have known better than to yell at my boss, but what a bitch. I can only hold my tongue for so long. So after three months I was jobless again.

I came up to the bay area and got a job working part time at a cemetery. This had to be the world’s most boring job. I spent most of my time forming escape scenarios in case the dead suddenly popped up and started trying to eat my brains. Because you need a few escape routes just in case, I mean you don’t know if they are going to be the slow shuffling zombies or that fast as all hell ones.

Now I’m at the Metro. Which I really like, but one of these days I’m going to have to get myself a real job again, and I don’t think I’m looking forward to that.

Kind of

It was later in the night and I just walked through the door to the bar. I was putting my I.D. away when this guy comes up to me grabs my arm and drags me in closer. His warm, alcohol-infused breath fans over my face, as he looks deeply into my eyes and says, “You’re kind of pretty.”

He then abruptly lets go and walks away.

What the hell? You’re drunk and you couldn’t commit to pretty? Was that supposed to be a compliment? Wow, well I don’t retch when I see you so that’s a good thing, right?

Were your beer goggles askew? I’m not some freaking gargoyle. Next time just commit to pretty, it’s not that strong a word. Or at least if you are going to insult me buy me a drink first.

Time, what's that?

The majority of my days I try to wake up at 8:30 a.m., shower get ready and out the door by 9:30 (this often doesn't happen). At work by 10 then leave at 1 p.m. and off to the daily at 1:30. These last few weeks I've been at the daily til about 2 a.m. I then drive a half hour home to tiptoe through the house and try not to wake up A.

I'm a little tired but lately have found it difficult to go to bed any earlier than two. It sucks because in general I still wake up around 9 a.m. So I really want to go to sleep but I can't, and if I try to go to sleep now I'll murder A because of the snoring (my temper gets really short when I can't sleep).

But usually I have a few friends that I can talk to online until the wee hours of the morning but tonight they have all left me. So instead I sit here, not enjoying, the Chronicles of Riddick, hoping a little more alcohol might quiet a restless spirit. It's not working but hopefully it will at least quell any dreams I might have, because lately they have gone places I truly wish they hadn't.