The last hour of work

You know it. You've been there. It's the last hour of work. You swore to yourself that you'd work as much overtime as possible and now here you are, counting the minutes till the whistle goes off. Yabba dabba do.

I don't have much to report. Got sick over the weekend. Banged my face on the toilet and now I've got a huge bruise on my right cheek, my right inner thigh, the underside of my right arm. Look like some sort of battered housewife. Was white wine involved? You betcha. Was some sort of seafood appetizer a factor? Oh dear god, yes. As my sheets will fully attest. Ew. Ew. Ew.

The apartment I'd hoped to get in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. . . they finally got back to me. Three weeks later. Said it was down to me and one guy and they really had a hard time deciding. Now they want to invite me to their housewarming. Whores. I'm going to tell myself that one of the guys who had a girlfriend was insanely attracted to me and couldn't handle living with me and that the gay guy (the other guy in the house) was threatened by my masculinity as well as my ownership of a non-penis (aka vagina). Whatever. The bedroom didn't have a window.

It's spring time. That's something. Trees in bloom. I continue to bang away at my script and vow to live a more artistic life. Have started The Artist's Way for the 15th time. Each time I do it, I learn something new. Though usually I think I do it right after a breakup.

Saw Gabe for the first time in over a year today. He looks good, though he'd tell you otherwise. Gabe, for christ's sake, will you put your blog back up?

When in doubt, clean. That's what I shall do.