Jesus, I am wallowing. I can feel myself wallowing. But, in the end, it fucking hurts.

From about 4 p.m. on I’ve dabbled in alcohol. Not enough to kill me, but enough to make me think or not.

Office party, and friends there, onto an open mike, and friends there. So, maybe I have friends. Maybe I also have a gift for speaking as though I hadn’t been drunk. I will know tomorrow when I listen to my set on my iPod.

What hurts I guess is the phone call — “I miss you already.” I didn’t say it then, but me too. I listened to your mp3s in my car on the way home. I wandered the streets a little (probably unwise, but not dangerous, just fatalistic). Why are you so sensitive, sensitive enough to give me women singing things like “Midnight Train to Georgia?” By Mass Ave. I was racked with sobs. I could feel it like real pain; Throbbing, sore, aching and I choked on my own tears. Leaving on that Fucking Midnight Fucking Train to Fucking Georgia. Now there’s that Vonda Shepherd chick or however you spell it from Ally McBeal. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.

I understand crying because a guy hurt me. I don’t understand crying because a guy is good.

On a lighter note, thanks to the folks willing to drink with me. Ed, Josh, Meryl while she lasted, George who wanted to see me perform but had to go, jesse and especially Julie, who may actually read this. Julie, man, you are funnier than you know and it was good to see you back behind the mike. Sorry you got drunker than me, when I’m the one who needed to feel sorry for myself.

I guess the plus side is now I fucking know. I do miss the Chinaman and I am not looking forward to sleeping alone.