18 October 2002 - 1:32 p.m.

I think I may be getting sick, but for some reason, I just don't care.

Last night was a little fiction/poetry reading-type gathering called Writer's Harvest, which I enjoyed thoroughly, but it left me with some odd questions.

Like, is "mire" really pronounced "meer?" I thought it rhymed with "fire" and "higher" and "pyre." This wouldn't bother me, except that, if it is, I'm going to have to re-examine my life, trying to evaluate just how much of my vocabulary was shaped by Doors songs.

Following which I went to Karaoke at Don-Ho's Hawaiian Lounge. No, I did not sing. There is only one man who can persuade me to sing Karaoke, and his name is Kang Willy Wu.

Long story.

Anyhoo, I also never imagined I could get drunk enough at a bar to even consider getting into the whole Karaoke mood, but a lack of both dinner and a proper lunch, two glasses of wine, three cigarettes, and three sugar packets (I found myself peckish after last call, okay?) seemed to do the trick.

And are probably why I horked a bit in jroanoke's apartment, even though one of the whole reasons any of us were there in the first place was because I had never seen The Big Lebowski.

And so TBL went unseen, at least for me. I had to be carted home by one Ms. V, who, judging by today's entry, found her way back to the party. JR, if you are reading this, which you claim not to, but I'm not so sure, particularly after last night, during which I spilled secrets so old they have white hair, I'm sorry I horked in your bathroom and didn't watch the movie with you.

Sigh. I'm not even going to ask my new favorite question. I think I'm just going to have to faint on a chaise lounge somewhere, or lock myself in a tower. I give up. I can't get myself out of anything anymore, not that I ever could. I have "Damsel in Distress" tatooed on my forehead. I wish someone would have told me. I wouldn't have fought it for so long.

But as long as I'm rolling with that, I've decided I must unequivocally have caught something between the Ho's and JR's. I would rather be sick than hungover. Call it pride, but mostly I just want to hold on to my pluck. I can be brave and sick. But hangovers are just sad.

I turned in my essay today, via e-mail. It's not what I'd call complete, and not art, but it's not bad either, for a day and a half of work. Again, life reeks of Aitch, in a completely metaphorcal sense. I don't remember Aitch smelling like anything, unless we'd eaten chicken, or had been at a bar.

Aitch never got a hangover. He taught me when to arrive at a meeting, when to leave a party, and, of course, a shitload about writing, but he never taught me how to drink.

Aitch, if you're reading this, which you're not, because you, of all people, would come clean, explain yourself.

I feel bad about having called Gus at 2:15 a.m., but sometimes I need to do that sort of thing to put my relationship into perspective. In other words, when Gus doesn't get mad at me for something I know I would get mad at him for, it makes me realize how great my life is. And that two glasses of Chardonnay is two much for a wuss like me, hard as that is to admit.

But I got mine, seven hours later, when Gus called me. Granted, I couldn't stay up and talk to him because my head was burting, but I couldn't get mad, either.

Well played, Gus.

So I think I'll have some crackers. Because I am a sick, sick girl. In one way or another.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: