Just like an actual update (only crunchy).

These past few days have been cold and a bit of a blur - a steady diet of emails and meetings and bureaucracy, washed down with a healthy measure of gin. I don't want to give you the wrong impression about my nascent alcoholism - I'm aware that a lot of my day-to-day life involves drinking, and that substance abuse isn't cool, kids - but I lazily refuse to get defensive about it also. I don't need to justify myself to you. Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh right. While I've been mostly staying in with soup and a good book since the weather turned frosty, I had a particularly pleasing night out on Tuesday. My poetry neighbour picked me up from my house and drove me to his gig. I drank wine from the bottle in the back seat with his lady friend (and my recently aquired breakfast companion). The gig was fun. My poetry neighbour is very good at poetry. We drank the rest of the bottle on the way back. Poets converged on the front porch, as they so frequently do, and then my breakfast companion (and my poetry neighbour's lady friend) and I had midnight tea and toast and more wine out of mugs.

At one point I found myself snuggled up between a couple of people on the front couch, insulated against the cold by body warmth, red wine and a old ratty doona, and then I fell into a state of absolute bliss when some genius decided to scratch my head. For forty-five minutes. I can't remember the last time I was that purely relaxed, and in the end I regressed a bit into a weirdly pre-vocal, tactile state, where the bulk of my focus was diverted into feeling warm and snuggly and headgood, and I must have dozed off for a while because when I woke up I was in my poetry neighbour's arms and he was carrying me to the spare room. I managed to convince him to put me down, and I walked home in the bitter cold and collapsed on my bed in the red glow of the alarm clock. It was five-thirty in the morning.

I've also been having vivid and swirly dreams that are a weird mix between the tediously hyperrealist and Frenchily and cinematically absurd. For example, last night I was typing a seven-page report on my laptop* when my housemate came in to tell me that there was a suspected gas leak in the house and that we had to get out but quick. When we got outside, we were outside my parents' house, and my mum was hanging out on the nature strip rolling cigarettes out of penne and wheatgerm. She offered me a smoke and went to light up, and I woke up panicking because gas leaks and penne cigarettes are a bad, bad combination.

*I actually did this in real life. It was fun, in a mind-implodingly bureaucratic kind of way.

In any case, the upshot of all this is that I have nothing really worth writing about at the moment, and everything you just read was merely a self-indulgent exploitation of the internet as externalised keeper of memory. I write, it caches, and I don't have to keep these memories in my head anymore. Then, when I am old and grey, I can simply search using particular terms and this entry will pop up on my screen. Or in my head. You know, because some day the internet will just be in your mind. You heard it here first, and if you're reading this in your head in the future, you should do a quick cross reference of your synapses to find out whether or not that's true.