Sure. I've drunk too much and passed out. Like three times. Two of those times (though I hate to admit it) were the result of the wanton abandon related to my mother's death. She'd have hated me for it, though I suspect she's the one who passed the trait on. The trait of utterly losing control and drinking so much that you puke. The other was also an emotionally related black out that I'm about 97% sure I've related on this antiquated page, so I won't bore my 3 accidental or obsessive readers.

My drinking has evolved. I don't black out anymore. I taper off just enough during my consumption so that I remember (if I try hard enough) every last embarrassing moment. Just now, as I decided that another six-pack was a lovely idea, I remember wishing that I wouldn't get the person who rang me up a mere 4ish hours ago for my first six-pack. Apparently, some wishes do come true. It was a smiling Indian man, probably barely 21 who rang me up, who was pleasant to me despite my slack face, dull eyes and poorly chosen wardrobe. Not that the man who sold me the slightly better brew wouldn't have been courteous. I just would have known that he remembered me coming in sober 4 hours ago.

I spent the last week in Southern California. My return has brought me nothing but hardship, but it feels doubly, perhaps quadruply the hardship I normally feel. Living in a hotel room, having it cleaned, driving a car (or rather being chauffeured in a car) that is in tip top shape, and merely planning the tourist traps or beaches you'd like to visit is not such a hard life. This last week is not the first time I've fantasized about quitting my second job in a spectacular manner (spit flying from my mouth, revealing to my boss how shite she really...tears on her part=too much?) but it's been a long time that returning to the fairly low-key atmo of my library job has rankled me so much. I'm sure it will pass, but I can't help but think about working at the Laguna Beach Library and Gardens; waiting on rich assholes, but being able to look out the window and see gorgeously trim surfing boys a short lunch break away.

While I am an admitted workaholic, I do not relish it. I am constantly losing my cool. Many a night has been spent, staring at a blank screen, tears forming in my eyes as I shut the blasted pink Dell down, praying (to what, I don't know) that I'll think of something pithy, clever and necessarily brainless in the morning.

As if you couldn't tell, I am thoroughly (though not quite enough not to spell-check) shit-faced. One day I'll look up the etymology of "shit-faced" and probably be embarrassed. Until that day, I'll continue to write crap press releases, post calendar items I never intend to attend (clever!) and put on the most gloriously polite phone voice imaginable.

Miss you lots brown, ugly, out-dated, no-longer-relevant-to-my-actual-life-but stubbornly-representing-my-past diary!