one bourbon, one beer... something's missing

actually i had scotch last night so i can't complain.

I learned several things this evening. Some of them I knew before.
One thing is that Methodists make darn good pie.
Second is that the old Pink has gritty benches and this bothered me far less than one would think. (Good thing I wore brown.)
The evening involved both the Eden Corn Festival way the hell out in Eden, which made me a bit nostalgic for the Schaghticoke Fair of my youth, and also a trip down to Allen St. downtown that made me a bit nostalgic for NYC. "It's kind of like," Z said, as we wandered past Q and Cathode Ray, "when you'd get off the PATH at Christopher Street and there was just all this... gay."
"Hang on," I said, brushing at his shoulder, "you got some gay on you."
Despite a particular bar having been voted Most Lesbian Friendly in Z's newsweekly's annual poll, I didn't dare go into it, because there was not one female that was actually genuinely a female and had no Y chromosomes. There were female-ish persons, but they were not actual genuine females, and so I just couldn't bring myself to drag Z in there. (Although he professed himself willing to enter.) I dunno, I just haven't... I don't think i've really been to a gay bar since I was last an actual practicing gay person, and I'd feel sort of funny going there now. Like a white person in a black Baptist church, like I was just there to be a tourist. I mean... I dunno, now's not the time to get into how inept that metaphor is.

But Methodists in Eden make damn good pie, and also passable bbq. We couldn't really complain.

But at some point, some insect has very itchily bitten my left breast four times, and it's just a bad situation inside my bra. We are not amused. We are unhappy. More bourbon would be employed to remedy the situation, but 1) we have no more bourbon, and 2) I have to work tomorrow and the day after and the day after and the day after and the day after.

for fuck's sake, people

In which I whine excessively about my frustrations with The Boy, and yes I know he hates it when I call him that, but OH FUCKING WELL.
( another of the many things I don't understand )

If you clicked the cut you deserved what you got. Me, I don't think he actually reads my journal anymore, given the things he's said lately, so writing here is exceptionally passive-aggressive of me, which suits me because I am so thoroughly pissed-off at the moment, and now have to go to work like that. I hate going to work already pissed-off. it just makes a stupidly long and exhausting day even more so, which is just stupid. Stupid.

Stupid.

ungh. ass, consider yourself kicked.

I hate Sundays, really I do. Whether I make a lot or a little money, they always leave me feeling as though I've been set upon by a gang of thugs in boots. Ow.

I'm ridiculously excited about this upcoming weekend, however. I was dancing around and singing from being excited at the prospect of having a weekend off. In Melrose. Yes.
Maybe Mom will make me a birthday cake. That'd be sweet. That, and chicken flautas, would make my day. Maybe I'll email her and ask her to.
Because it'll be only two weeks before my birthday, and I won't be able to go home again so soon. (I haven't even requested the weekend off. What's the point? I got nothin' to do that weekend. Y'know, I should probably make some friends in Buffalo.)
What's really bumming me out is the realization that no way in hell will I get Labor Day weekend off, which means missing out on both the Highland Games at Altamont, and the Great Schaghticoke Fair, and also the Buffalo Chicken Wing Festival. Maybe I can get to the Festival, if I can get the evening off on Saturday. It's OK, I can catch the Erie Co. Fair instead-- surely that goes more than a weekend-- but I'm really bummed about the Highland Games because one's year cannot be complete without witnessing the caber toss and at least some of the finals of the bagpipe bands.
Sniff.
Life, it is so much with the hardness, I know not what to do.

I need some ibuprofin. Oo, or bourbon. Oh wait, I'm out of bourbon.
Crap.
You know, however much booze I buy, I'm always out of what I want. It's just not fair.