The Dangers of Posting While Drunk

The evidence is all there this morning in black and white. At least I spelled and punctuated everything correctly. When reminded that I had posted at 2 a.m., I expected to come here and find something that looked like this:

"Fjree jagagjklf skdh dkrkj sdslld skeuosal jdhj Jusalk," so while I'm a little bit embarrassed that I was so maudlin, at least I was grammatically maudlin.

Now it's Sunday, and I've read the "Times" (disheartening and depressing),eaten my bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich (cures the bottle of red wine consumed in a fit of boredom and over the course of a long phone convo), and I'm settled in with the Mad Kitty purring Friskie-breath in my face while she (successfully) tries to keep me from doing the crossword puzzle. She squoze herself across my arms and chest, on her back like a little baby. Gone is the sweet, milky scent of kittenhood; she breathes all meaty now, which is kind of gross, but her stankity meat-breath is more than offset by her sheer cuteness. I think this is how it works with people, too (witness guys who put up with batshit insane girlfriends because they look like Brazilian underwear models).

Am I bothering you? Too bad.

What I learned from yesterday's Noble Silence: it should always be followed by going out into the world IMMEDIATELY to interact in meatspace (to borrow Paula's word). Otherwise, I end up completely stir-crazy, a little bit bummed that my love and I are in what're probably the best cities for Halloween in the western world (New York and New Orleans, where you're encouraged to let your inner drag queen vogue), but not dressing up in some clever costumes together (snooki-wah, I wanted to borrow someone's baby and go dressed as Zach Galafianakis' character from "The Hangover"), and buzzed on a 2009 Valpolicella (nice bottle of wine, btw, I do like young Italians).

Want to know what made me feel better?

Reading poetry, aloud, to my Gentleman Caller. I've never done that before. I guess you could call me a poetry-reading virgin. Then again, I've never had a GC who actually gave a hoot about words, and music, and the music in words, and me, all at once (the Smelly Brit doesn't count because he was all snotty about some of my books. Does anyone remember that guy's name? I sure don't. The weasel-dude from this past spring doesn't count either, because, well, he just Doesn't Count.).

So I guess I win.

Now, to top off this fine, lazy Sunday, I've got a yen for General Tso chicken, so I'ma go get me some Chinese.