Dear, dear. I have polished off a bottle of 2000 Coteaux du Languedoc (Picpoul de Pinet) -- "drinkable", raves WineSnob, "Well, it got you plastered, you old lush, what're you bitchin' at?", says Posh Escapism Monthly -- and smoked a few cigarettes, and now I'm taking pen to paper. Simply vile of me, I know. It had an odd bottle. I wasn't expecting that. But when I got it home (a few weeks ago, when I was gainfully employed, and wine wasn't such a senseless indulgence) I noticed the odd pattern of waves at the neck of it, and the ribbing at the base of it, and I lost heart. It sat, chilling, on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator until tonight. If I need an excuse, Buffy was on, and worth celebrating, insofar as they're beginning to deal in earnest with the idea of resurrection [and they said some pretty informed things about magic, which I like tremendously; to wit, that it has consequences]. Then ShW and I were swallowed whole by the Curious Pleather Sofa, forced to watch Roswell. I will not be proud; I was in it for the mostly-bare shots of that guy, whatever his name was. Rest assured, gentle readers, he did take his shirt off and make out with hot chicks on grainy, washed-out film. Extraordinary how potent cheap adolescent sexuality can be.
Today was spent wrassling with odd seventeenth-century clefs and feeling very bad indeed about the letter that came from the collection agency. I come from a very old Protestant family, and the idea that I might be the least bit economically praeterite is almost ... sobering. The clefs were considerably less insuperable, since all they required was a little patience. Paying my bills will require effort, which is mysterious foreign substance which I can only obtain at great expense to my personal convenience. I believe it is trekked in via camel train from Responsibistan, and has to travel across parched deserts and lonely steppes. Deep as my commitment to luxury goods may be, I believe I might have to cut back on such costly stuffs in the interests of my own indolence.
During Buffy, DS called to apologize for being a big old slut (explaining, nobly, that such things are to be expected to happen when he gets in bed with a boy). It was nice that he returned my call. I had called him earlier, leaving a message. His machine now plays that Laurie Anderson song, the one I gave him from that compilation CD {eh, he's young: it's new to him} -- so of course I said I was Belinda Carlisle and I wanted him to go-go with me to EN's concert on Weds. night. Not that I'd expect him to come, since he won't even dance to the Cure, let along electro-noise-goth, but I thought the offer might spark a call back. And call back he did. And then we made indistinct plans for the weekend. Boys are complicated and I want my life back. Especially the part about having a weekly paycheck and the part where all my friends still live in this godforsaken town.
glumly,
a