Ouch, part two.

Q. Why is Jess such a fucking idiot?
A. It's just habit, I guess.



So here's part deux in the series entitled, "Jess should not be posting when she's drunk". This series should possibly be subtitled "while booze is but a band-aid solution and no panacea, our heroine believes that drowning her sorrows in a haze of tears and then writing about it for the consumption of strangers while listening to Fiona Apple is a good idea", but any self-respecting editor would strike that immediately. No run-on sentence ever did no-one no good.

Anyway, it's past midnight, I'm drenched (internally) with beer and I can't walk in a straight line, and all these things are consequences of my own stupidity this morning (except for the passage of time - that's one thing that, comfortingly, I cannot seem to fuck up or fuck with). Which is not to say that the day was a total write-off - between its ignomious start and bleary-eyed end I conducted a pretty good interview with a Very Big University Cheese, did six or so hours of transcription, designed the cover for the next edition, and neologised a few fairly charming malaprops. I also bought Seb an "Ice T" brand iced tea as a birthday present, which I think no-one but he and I will find funny in the slightest. I plan on making him an awesome birthday card to go with it - something along the lines of Ice T telling him to stay off drugs and to avoid gangs like the plague. And perhaps a birthday sentiment, I don't know. Hey, it would be lame even if I weren't drunk. Leave me alone.

I think part of the problem right now is that I'm back in the insomnia slump, and so only had two hours sleep last night. Just as I was starting to fall asleep, Paulina woke up and started regaling me with tales of her Uncle UFO, a UFO-obsessed Pole who was also a hunchback from polio. Then she fell asleep, and kept kicking me as I tried to doze off.

Fortunately I'm still in the first flush of sleeplessness, where I can get up and read or paint or watch TV and not feel exhausted in the morning. I know that in a few weeks I'll be tired and grumpy, but at the moment I still feel I'm stealing hours in the dead of night, hoarding them against the daylight when I'll be forced to get up and go to work and can't wander into the back garden in just a thin slip and feel the cold dew beneath my sleepy feet. I'm still infatuated by the night, and standing outside in the cool thick air eating figs off the tree seems like an unimaginable delight.

Funnily enough, drinking doesn't seem to send me into any kind of stupor, so I suppose I'll be up tonight, toes in the damp earth, thinking about the day and wishing that I hadn't felt compelled to spill my intoxication into the neat, orderly world of the interweb. I should also mention that apart from occasionally proofing things I don't edit this at all, so the record will always show my drunken blatherings. That's okay, I guess - though I'm still trying to figure out the bounds of disclosure on this this, my own fallibility will always be up for grabs. And right now I am very fallible - so fallible, in fact, that I am falling... falling... off.. my chair.


Excuse me.