2001-04-22 :: 2:51 p.m.

"I am pickling my tongue with these margaritas,"

And so an evening if dancing, sweating, laughing, and drunken idiocy. I love Saturdays. Trixi T's birthday was really something. We stuffed ourselves to the brim with Italian food, she loved her presents, we went dancing until three and then drank more at Ruby's house until we all passed out with our party shoes on.

And now Sunday. Sopranos with Tallboy later. There is some guilt attached to this activity. But fuck it. A few blocks away, he is still being her boyfriend.

A call with RSE earlier made for sketchiness and uneasiness and I don't want to talk about it save for the fact that whatserface is still around despite him saying he wants otherwise and I understand these things because he put himself in a tough position what with deciding to tour with her band and all that crap and yeah, I wouldn't want to call things off right before going away together either because that would make for some really meaty tension, but he made his own bed and he will have to lie in it, and what he said about this not being fair to me in light of some recent revelations, well that's all true, and it isn't fair but what can I do except do my thing and I'm doing my thing, pressing forward, rocking on, temporary amnesiac, though it hurts hurts hurts that two people who think they can work it out at some point cannot get together to work it out or even work on it, and two people who want to hang out with each other can't do that, and all the sadness it implies he knows and i know and now, undoubtedly, everyone this side of the mall knows.

He's the salt on my tomato. please-pass-me-the-thing-that-makes-everything-taste-better.

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