I love Amy.
In other news. I haven't been talking much about my drinking lately, because in theory I now have a list for that, but I haven't been talking about it much there either, because I'm rather bad at administrating a list it seems. But the thing is, I haven't been drinking. I went 49 days, and then last week when I was sick, I had some purely medicinal whiskey, and this of course represents a failure on my part, but one I was prepared to allow for and move on from, but then I had some again tonight, a triumph of what would have been elaborate justifications if I hadn't given in so quickly to the philosophy of justfuckitism. I was seeking to medicate my work-related rage. Because otherwise I might actually do something stupid, like send an e-mail to someone that said, "Could you *be* any more of a prick? Because to hell with serving our poor, confused customers--if you could trump your personal best of Olympic-quality gold-plated fatheadedness, that'd be a *real* coup for our company, you arrogant, fuckwitted, MBA-ass-kissing fuck."
And that would be bad.
Now I am all sodden and depressed and filled with bile and pancakes, and trying to figure out what to do with my remaining 1 hour and fifty-four minutes of day, that piddling tail end of life before bed becomes necessary. Ah, so many options, except that I can't ride like the wind in my car, sucking in the sweet, cool night breeze, because of course my car is fucked. So I'll huddle in my basement apartment instead, and perhaps pluck tiny hairs from my body and light them on fire.