Everybody's Working on the Weekend...

Ugh. I'm at the office. The task they've given me to do I don't know how to do. I got essentially no instructions and so I'm biding my time until Kit joins me. I don't want to work for hours only to find out I have to go back and redo it anyway.

Grr...Argh...

Maybe also I'm a little hungover. Just a little. More sleepy.

Chris had offered his and Spring's services to entertain me out of my funk (though a huge weight was lifted when I knew that Gary got to Austin safe and was with Mom). They came over, the idea was to have a drink and a bowl and then go play some pool.

We did all that except leave and go play pool.

Apparently, these two are my go-to people when the bottom drops out. We laugh and talk and shoot the shit until 4 in the morning. I set them up on the air mattress in the other room--something I'm sure has been "broken in" now--they're a very...um...affectionate couple.

In a discussion of livejournal, Spring got flustered, waved her arms:

"We don't fight all the time! Why does he always write about our fights? My dad reads that, and thinks that's all we do."

That's what happens when you get involved with a writer. They crave the drama because it fuels the prose. Believe me. I know.

Thankfully, Junebug only uses livejournal to post pictures from his camera. I don't even want to know what he'd write about me. And I don't think he'd want to know what I write about him. Or any of them, for that matter. Ah, what a tangle web we weave, when first we use the web to...ah, hell. Doesn't rhyme. But I think blogging could be a central issue in the breakdown of sexual politics and functional relationships.

Chris and I talked about how being an artist requires a certain amount of desperation. It's how we pull 50 hour weeks at day jobs we don't give a shit about, and then pull 50 hours of rehearsals and performances and whatnot for no pay. For the sheer, utter need to do it.

Hey, most people pull 50 hour weeks and then stare at the wall, watching paint dry. And by watching paint dry, I mean digesting that stupid Simple Life show. I like my way better. And somewhere in there, I manage to get laid on occasion. I'll sleep when I'm...nevermind. Tasteless. I'll sleep when I sleep.

Come on Kit, get here so I can do stuff and then go drink. I don't ask for much.