and just when I get fans, too. My valiant attempts to impose a deadline on myself for the first draft of my gestating play have kept me away from posting, because every time I have an actual writing project to focus on the mere thought of writing anything else fills me with paranoid dread, as though I needed to conserve my energy and time and any semblance of talent I might have for this Very Special Work. The flip side of this is that when working on one project is the only thing I think about, I lose my goddamn mind because I'm housebound all day with only the internets for company and seven hours rocket by and I don't write anything and I get bored and lonely and become convinced there's nothing good in this city, ever, under any circumstances, and I'll never be happy and I'll never finish writing and I'll never do anything ever.

Also, I'm broke again, which is just depressing de facto.

Oh to have stories of Magic Eye mishaps and peeing lesbians to write about! Oh to be fabulously witty like Mimi Smartypants who makes anything seem interesting and quirky! Oh to FINISH MY FREAKING FIRST DRAFT ALREADY!

I'm better today. So much so that I would like to openly rant to Joe Roch, burgeoning blogger extraordinaire, for his egregious, blasphemous insult to those who appreciate fine whiskey everywhere:

Joe mentions on his blog (it's at the Magic Eye/lesbian link above) that he spent most of Saturday night pounding back some 18-year-old Jameson, which, for the uninitiated, is basically liquid gold. It smells like autumn and home and smoky nights and warmth. It's like drinking a fine wine: there are so many layers and flavors that it makes regular Jameson, which I will happily drink straight on any given day, taste like lighter fluid and pain.

Joe has just informed me that he drank most of the bottle of this sweet, magical nectar of the gods by mixing it with Diet Coke. DIET FUCKING COKE AND 18-YEAR-OLD JAMESON?! AND THEN! He informs me that he then got so drunk on it that he threw it all up!

I reappropriate Ferris Bueller: 'A man with priorities so far out of whack doesn't deserve such a fine whiskey.'

Joe, you're one of my closest friends, you're a badass rockstar genius for what you did with Hedwig, I love you to bits, but this is unacceptable. Whiskey Protective Services might need topay your apartment a visit and liberate what remains of this precious creature, as well as its 12-year-old sibling, and send them to a home full of whiskey-loving people who appreciate their talents and thus prevent them from being subjected to further abuse at the hands of a misguided malcontent.

Diet fucking Coke. Feh.  ¶ 2:51 PM