While digging through the rubble of my life, I found a cache of old notebooks, journals, etc. Apart from whining prose making it clear that my life is led not by my head but my, how shall I say, twat, or perhaps more kindly my heart, I found a couple of interesting notes from friends.

(Seriously, though, most all of the ink in any journal I find is pining, yearning, pining, yearning, tortured self-inflicted, man-crazy misery. Bad enough I’ve made some less than stellar choices, but for fucking christ’s sake, did I need to obsess so much?)

Anyway, the point is I normally don’t suck my good friends as directly and specifically as I am about to do. Towhit, Exhibit A:

Liz (aka Lizard) is soon to be (very, very soon) a 40-year-old, grown-up woman. She owns her own home, she owns her own dog, and car, and job and all sorts of pillar of the community stuff. I guess in October 1990 she would have been 26 and a whole lot less pillar-y toward her community.

We still occasionally get into drinking contests. Then, I was in shots of Cuervo dangerous prime. She didn’t stand a chance. Now, children can kick my drinking ass, which is actually fine by me (since it lessens the likelihood of my full-blown, face down in the gutter, alcoholic, homeless, sad ending).

And, Ivan, who was to have or have not gotten blown, I believe remained unblown that day. (Although, our slutty friend at the time, Nancy, was out and about, so that outcome is not absolutely certain.) A couple years later, he suffered some kind of aneurysm or other bad brain thing, but he fully recovered. I think he has a wife and kids. No further information is available, fellatio-wise.

Now that I’ve thrown this devil pact up on the web, I have to decide — Do I email Liz, or let her find it on her own while slacking at work?