Depressed. I'm not in the mood for patrol tonight. Work is too boring and inane to even blog about. I saw Margo today, and I don't even remember what she was wearing - that's how bad I am.
I come home, work out for an hour, take a bath, then make a mix disc full of sad songs while I eat cold pizza. And no, I don't put REM's "Everybody Hurts" on my disc. I may be juvenille, but even in my malaise I still have my standards. I end up with Neko Case, Johnny Cash, some Morrissey, some Sarah McLachlan, and others that I'm too embarassed to write down. So what if I like "Send In The Clowns"? Sue me, all right? Anyway, to butch up my disc I throw in "Love Hurts" by Nazareth, who rawk.
I cap off the rest of the evening by downing successive bottles of ale and watching Casablanca, which makes me cry. Am I growing breasts? Because I feel like I'm turning into a woman. At least I don't gorge myself on chocolates.
I crawl into bed late. The sheets still smell like her. I should probably wash them.