There is so much to talk about.

1. I hope this does not become a Monday-Friday Work blog. So far, it's due to the fact that I'm one of the few 1st-World Nation citizens who doesn't own a PC.

2. My pseudo-alcoholism is wearing thin:
I was invited to a party on Friday, a "Goodbye to Summer" bruhauhau, and I invited Troy, Matt, and Derrick. It was actually nice, but I took that inebriated-ingenue Kinderwhore act to another level. I doubt anyone thinks of me as intelligent. I care about more than just Mariah Carey and vodka-7! "I'm pleasant, damnit! I've just been in a bad mood for 40 years." Anyway, I got butt drunk and left the party, swiping the host's leopard cowboy hat, and entourage and I stumbled to the Loft, where Derrick was kicked out for being 20, and Matt stormed off apparently due to me physically picking him up - relayed to me the next day (I've learned Matt doesn't like to be picked up from our San Francisco fiasco). With his heart still a pendulum, Troy followed suit, only to be ran over by Matt. I think they are taking that Ike and Tina thing too far. Anyway, I left the Loft with some random guy who I've been told I've met before, and we went to Rich's, but as I was shutting the door, in my drunken stupor, I slammed the door too hard and sprained my right thumb. Actually not the thumb, but the padding below my thumb. But ever the party boy, with my stolen cowboy hat and pimp-daddy chain around my next, we proceeded to Richs to dance for like 10 minutes until "the thrill [was] gone." Thank god I don't get hangovers - that's one of the perks of having alcholism run in the family. Troy tells me that he walked home screaming on the top of his lungs in anger at m Matt for running Troy down, gets in his car, and drives to Matt's house to get his keys. He bangs on Matt's door for 30 minutes until the police come. As the police are cuffing Troy, he argues Matt's bi-polar rantings, saying that he only wants his keys and he'll leave. Troy gets them, but only after Matt has taken a pair of plyers and cut off the metal part of each key on his keychain. Oi Vey.

Anyway, on Saturday night, I take Troy out to Inn at the Park for a swank, $90 dinner and to listen to Carol sing. I didn't really want to leave for the Calyph, especially on a Saturday night, and also because there was this daddy-type, hot-as-hell, 30-something Brit at the bar - I was salivating. "Mama Like!" We left, but instead of the Calyph, we headed for the Loft and only stayed for a sec. Troy drove us to his place, I ordered Papa Johns, Troy went to sleep, and Derrick and I watched The Family Man. Walked home.

Sunday: what the heck did I do? Went shopping at Gala Foods, which is kind of like Food for Less, but can't afford all the consonents and vowels to finish their name. Also did laundry, but that is still at Troy's house because we went out later that night to the Hole, where I always feel like a little boy amist all those menz. So began my mental funk. Then after driving to the Calyph while singing Donna Summer's version of "Con te Partiro" on the top of our lungs, full post-party depression kicked in. Of course Troy didn't realize this, though he should have; when I leave any place with a full cocktail readily available, you know it's trouble. I should have threatened to sleep with my cutlery again. I knew he wouldn't follow either. I'm no Matt - which is another thing that pissed me off: everyone, I mean everyone kept asking where he was. I just don't understand. But if Troy had followed, I would have been surprised. Instead, I walked home, and since I had to use the restroom, and the Loft was on the way, I stopped there for a pit stop, and walked right out without saying hello to anyone. Marc was outside smoking and asked if I wasn't staying - all I could muster, because I was a bit sloshed (sloshy Joshy), was a turn, a nod, a grin, and I sauntered off home.

3. I want to move.

I had friends move to Atlanta recently, and they keep asking me to come out there with them. I am so tempted; I lived there for 6 months before my relationship with my ex-best friend deteriorated to the point of no return and moved back to San Diego. I loved Atlanta - there is so much culture, archetecture, weather, people, etc, compared to San Diego. I think there is also the thrill of being in a new city where everything is exciting and new, like Mary Tyler Moore and Minnesota. I have this vivid image of myself in Piedmont Park, or better yet in downtown Atlanta, grabbing something and throwing it in the air and letting the wind catch it. Not my hat.. something more flamboyant... like...I don't know? If anyone does in fact read this, let me know what you suggest.

I just have this urge to up and run away from here. I'm a native San Diegan, and although I was gone for 2 years with my Navy hiatus and what not, I really feel like white trash for not moving away. Like Shiver me Timbers it's time to get out of the crow's nest.

So beside fighting the "fight or flight" urge, I don't have much on my mind, beside planning to ignore all my - quote - friends and hope they all forget about me. I really need to get off this pity pot stick I'm in.