Chapter 8

Wherein the author is not, despite the name, actually dead per se.

I was going to blog about last night's weirdness, but the more I think about it, perhaps I won't. Parts of it were amusing, but it had a tragic twist in the tail that makes me not want to laugh about the earlier stuff. Instead, allow me to present a few rules for polite society.

Try not to mix alcohol and regret. It's the kind of thing that starts out seeming like a good idea and ends up with you on a stranger's doorstep trying to convince them that they are supposed to give you a ride home. (We walked. There was a little staggering into bushes, but no vomiting, so it went better than I had hoped.)

If you do find yourself on somebody's doorstep needing help to get home, no matter how confident you are that you know the way, lead with your address. It'll simplify things.

If you are just a garden-variety fuck up, pull your shit together and solve your own problems. You're sucking up people's ability to cope with actual problems. People should not be sharing their horrible news with me in the middle of the night because the rest of their family is too busy dealing with you. If your problems are your own fault, suck it up and deal, asshole.

And finally, I'm much more comfortable with the whole "crying on shoulder" thing when it remains strictly metaphorical, but you've gotta do what you've gotta do.

S'aright? S'aright. Let's move on.

There will probably not be a Top Chef recap today. Recaps are, like gazpacho and revenge, best served cold. Right?

Work continues to be a crushing grind. Did I mention that I'll be in New York at the end of October?