I've named him Marvin

Not good at all.

I have a crush on a mouse

There is a tiny mouse who has popped into my room twice today and just hung out behind my dresser for a little while before popping back out. I don't know what he's doing, there's nothing back there and he isn't making any noise. When I see him and yell at him to get out he looks askance at me for a moment before hiding himself guiltily. He's so freaking cute I can't stand it.

Arrrgh. This is not good.

Just to follow up...*

...on that last post:

Today, in a staff meeting, in the company of my co-workers, I was forced to view video footage of myself on the aforementioned Saturday night. (Not, I hasten to add, because anybody thought that watching me would be a good anti-drinking lesson or even remotely interesting, but because other stuff went on that night and damned if we weren't made to watch it, for our own improvement.) Seeing myself booze-annihilated on camera, all pixelated and 'cutting a rug,' as my boss wryly commented, filled me with a potent mix of emotions including a) the desire to run the f away, to like Brazil or some shit and b) the desire to ask for a copy of the tape in order to study it in great detail, you know, to check out the correlations between my memory of the night and the actual, physical record of the night. For metaphysics sake. And narcissism's sake. Caught thus, I rather stuttered and stood there, and no one really cared, because let's face it, no one really cares what embarrassing things you do or how drunk you may become unless you screw them over somehow.

The moral of this story: well, there is no moral to this story. I will continue to serve alcohol. I will continue to drink alcohol. Occasionally, I will become utterly retarded from over-indulging in said alcohol. I will waste entire days feeling riotously hungover, and I will fail to recognize people when I see them in the street the following day. I will kiss boys and then not call them back. I will dance poorly and behave like a complete and utter moron.

You probably will too, so don't get all high and mighty with me.

(* This blog was supposed to be about adventures serving booze, not consuming it, so apologies to all of those who are feeling misled and, frankly, badly used.)

To the kind of cute guy who got WAAAY too drunk on Friday night:

I looked at you with scorn and derision, even as I noticed your attractively shaggy haircut and clean, even teeth. I thought to myself, man, this guy is wasted. He can't even sit up straight on a barstool. What a dumbass. What a freaking loser.

It was 3:30 in the morning, and I was not feeling charitable.

I laughed at your friend when she demanded back her debit card, because she had been paying in cash. I gave her a Look when she told me I was wrong, and sniffed a bit when she pulled her card wonderingly out of her wallet. I walked over to Rigo, my bartendering companion, and said 'Man, there's an ad for giving up drinking if I've ever seen one. Don't drink, cuz you look like a stupid idiot. Like that guy.'

Then Saturday night rolled around.

On Saturday night I drank six glasses of wine before breaking one all over someone's shoes, waltzed clumsily and loudly, shared inappropriate secrets with people I barely knew, tried to flirt with three different guys at the same time, told someone I went to high school with but haven't seen in 5 years that I am hoping to meet a Sex God in the near future, asked him if he was a Sex God, and then fell over. Much of this was done in the exact spot where the dumbass drunk guy had been sitting.

I'm sorry, dumbass drunk guy. Clearly, it happens. In the future, when you are behaving like a freaking loser, I promise to be more charitable.