Before Pookie has a chance to blame me for the night’s events, I am just going to say that I am NOT the one who wanted to venture to bar number three. It wasn’t me who wanted to stay and talk to Irish Boy. It wasn’t me who even joined into that conversation at all. It was me, who didn’t even want to finish my beer and thought I might puke after my first Irish Car Bomb EVER. The car bomb that was meant for YOU, I might add. It was I, who would have been content leaving and going to bed. Hence my “utter exhaustion” and all. Its okay, Pookie. I ain’t mad atcha. At least we didn’t meet any psychos or get pulled over for speeding. At least there was no Pinhead, no B, no rastas. I can say that. I’ll tell you what though, had I worn that boa, we would have been in trouble, because Zsa Zsa’s comin’ outta the BOOTH.

I am glad to have a Saturday to myself though. And it is the best possible Saturday to do nothing. It is raining and gloomy and I don’t any demands on my time or my space. It’s lovely. I plan to watch “High Fidelity” and not answer the phone. It’s been nine weeks and counting since I have had a weekend day alone. Between my gay boyfriend and the out-of-towners, I have been spread pretty thin lately and am looking forward to the nothingness that will happen today. I just wish I could have slept longer.

I was awoken by a dream about Ernge. He was a kitten and he was dying and some other weird things that involved shoplifting lip gloss were happening…and someone else was dying too. And it was slow and painful and I was just waiting for a last breath. But it never came. And then I was awake, rubbing my eyes and trying to find my cat. Trying to see if he was alive. Don’t panic. He is fine…sleeping right next to me right now.

I had a late night conversation with Sean last night. Well, in the wee hours of the morning. I can’t wait to hear the details of our little chat. Nothing would surprise me either. I could have been quite truthful, I suspect. Which wouldn’t exactly be bad, I suppose. But has the potential to be tragic. I remember telling him that I missed him “to pieces” and I remember his reply being something like, “Well…if you take all those pieces and multiply them by a thousand, that’s how much I miss you.” It's disgusting, I know. I can’t even think about it without getting all warm and fuzzy and a little nauseated all at the same time. Have I mentioned how much I hate him?

Stuck-in-my-head Song of the day: "Another Lonely Day" - Ben Harper