All by myself. Don’t wanna beee, allllll byyyy myse-ye-elf.

While left to my own devices this weekend I managed not to projectile vomit, soil myself, burn any pizzas, set the dog on fire, lay around in my underwear, wake up next to a headless blood-drenched body, drink myself silly, stick my foot in my mouth, get into a bar-fight, park my car and then lose it, fall asleep on the couch smoking a cigarette and drinking beer and watching old episodes of Monty Python on DVD.

What did I actually manage to do? I actually went to Estelle’s and had a blast for once, I cleaned up the apartment, I made it to the gym every day, I washed the sheets after allowing Betty the Beagle to snuggle in bed with me so it didn’t feel so empty, I bung out with my friends more often than I usually get a chance to and a fell asleep on the couch while drinking a glass of milk and watching season two of The Office. Oh yeah and I got to see a totally righteous waitress at Double Door win seventy bucks by snorting two lines of snuff (that tobacco folks tuck behind their lip) and not throwing up immediately afterwards.

In other words I had a weekend comprised of later carousing than I usually indulge in but I managed to stay out of the trouble I would have gotten myself into merely a year or so ago. I’m growin’ up!

Smoke and mirrors.

Doyle and I had an interesting conversation about the distance that should and does remain between the average writer and their audience, the manipulations therein and the inability of most writers to be truly objective. I reckon I’ll explore this theme a little further later in the week after I’ve finished gathering my thoughts on the subject.