There was no hope for last night--the crest of the prolonged, murky wave that has been this week, stretched and retracted and stretched over and over and still, unbreaking. It rained. I didn't go to the party, stayed home and ate take out from Palmyra and watched Curb Your Enthusiasm until my flatmates came home and switched it to whiskey and some cable documentary about a Venezuelan brothel, and the fat, American truck drivers who vacation there. It was long, and sad, and I was smoking by the window when the buzzer blared; it was Logan, wearing boat shoes, I was kind of drunk, we sat on the couch for awhile and then smoked a bowl in my bed and it was quite a nice evening after all.
But now it's Saturday, it's almost--well, it is the afternoon, and the sun has come out, and I have a very long essay on God v. Postmodernism to spend the entirety of my weekend reading and reviewing. Ben D. leaves tomorrow, which is funny, because it's been a strange week, and apparently he "defriended" me on facebook yesterday, so evidently I haven't been a very good hostess, and I just suppose I'll be relieved to see him go, as I expected I would be before he even arrived. What else what else. Edinburgh's still old. The pile of dishes in the sink is apparently infinite. I spent enough money on a pair of boots yesterday that I'm going to be working them into my budget for the next three months at least. I haven't been eating very well at all, but am justifying it by climbing those wretched stairs every day, I think, probably not. Listening to all kinds of Modest Mouse. Forgetting what life was like away from this city.
So I'm pretty happy.
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