Every time I thought about sitting down and writing this week, I realized I was either too busy, too tired, or too drunk.  Too busy results in unreadable scribble scrabble rife with typos that I can’t make time to correct.  Too tired results in re-blogging a slew of other people’s stuff (and if I were that lazy, I’d just get a Tumblr).  Too drunk is embarrassing.  Dudes, you should see some of the stuff I type into Word when I’m buzzed.  Drunk Me In Public is charming and delightful.  Drunk Me At Home has no dignity and listens to sad songs on repeat.

I have a couple of OBCDs written and there are always paragraphs hiding somewhere in the vast wasteland of my word processing programs, but I’m in the mood for something more self serving personal.  My birthday.

I can’t decide if I should have another party this year or just go to a bar.  If there’s a party, I have the choice of doing it at my place or Graham’s.  Graham’s place is bigger but I’d feel an obligation to clean up afterwards.  I hate cleaning my own house enough; I refuse to find the all-purpose spray in someone else’s.  My place is my place, and there are few greater feelings that being too shitfaced to speak but knowing that your bed is only 20 feet away.  And the cleanup isn’t so bad.  I didn’t even mind scraping salsa off the floor last year.  Though I was not happy about whoever spilled coffee all over the inside of my refrigerator.

If I go to a bar, I have to deal with cab fare and paying for drinks and people actually wanting to show up and do the same.  Which is a pain.  Plus there are always those people who can’t stand to just stay in one place for two hours at a time and will make an effort to get everyone else to leave your party because they are impatient, inconsiderate assholes.

There will probably be a party.  I can always go to a bar on my actual birthday (Thurs 5/6, shameless I know!) since I’m off the next day.  Arena or Stable, maybe?  Arena for obvious reasons, Stable because I’ll have to tell you later.  In any case, going to a bar on my birthday and having a party days later is 100% acceptable because I am a girl and our birthdays last a whole week.  Duh.  Want to complain?  Get your period and then we’ll talk.

PS – I really hate when someone who claims to be inexperienced at writing writes something better than me.  “Bang down in the bilge”?  Fuck you, Crossley.

PPS – I feel like I can say “fuck you, Crossley” because we’ve had one brief e-mail conversation and Puglisi would endorse any insult I could throw at that guy.

PPPS – Three new fake things here.  Or more, depending on how long you’ve been reading.