mr-onion's Diaryland Diary

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The Continuing Life Story of a Feral Child Raised by Sock Monkeys

There are two main reasons why diaries don�t get updated: either nothing is happening or too much is.

At least I haven�t been bored.

The Thanksgiving weekend was shocking, and I'm trying to block out the memory of it. So here goes. One last purge for the sake of self flagellation:

Friday night at our regular filthy pub where the symptoms of scabies are on display all round you. The six of us are trying really hard lately not to turn it into a whinging session like usual. I've been uncharacteristically happy lately once I figured out that my job isn't really sucking my soul out and I can afford to pay my bills and I've stopped doing my time-honoured Top 10 List of What's Wrong With Everyone in This Damned City. We collectively look for a light at the end of the tunnel whilst our friend, Dairy goes on and on insufferably about her upcoming holiday where she's bought tickets for every single gig we could never afford to see. We all nod and muse quietly to ourselves about how she would look with her lips sewn shut zombie-style.

Saturday night was a social experiment to determine whether or not I'm a snooty bitch like the voices tell me. Crispy and I have been tossing around the idea of enlarging our social circle to inject some diversity into our neurotic little lives. To this end I went out for a co-worker's party at what could only be described as a Honky Tonk Bar. To my left: a collection of mullets playing pool. To my right: Big Hair Perm Hell. The drinks had to keep coming faster and faster to enable me to use phrases like "Just bought mahself a Trans Am with a T-top and the vinyl seats sho-ah are purdy" and fit in with these people. I can congratulate myself on the basis that I impressed some toothless cowboys with a slurred version of "Baby Got Back" but all in all it was a painful night.

The reason I stick with my peeps is because we're all neurotic and self indulgent and narcissistic and I can live with that.

Sunday morning rolls around and I can feel the grip of Death's icy fingers on my arm, urging me to go to the other two birthday parties that night. I had The Fear in me but like a good sport I hauled myself out for Stu's birthday drinks - where he spent ages talking about his Hit List "People I Will Have Rubbed Out When I Win The Lottery and Can Afford to Pay For Assassins". A very bitter boy, I tell you.

The three of us left Stu's DrunkFest to join J's birthday drinks down the road.

Unbeknownst to us, we walked right into 80's night at the bar he chose: Bungalow Breath. It was well nigh impossible to stand at the bar and order drinks from bartenders dressed lke Jennifer Beals, try as we might. I kept resisting the urge to push his off-the-shoulder-sweatshirt back onto his shoulder, lint picker that I am. We don't usually go in for this nostalgia but our mate was DJing so we picked all the worst tracks that scarred our tender youth: Tiffany, Debbie Gibson, Simple Minds, Belinda Carlisle. A good night in all, except for the nagging suspicion that Stu's now put us on his Hit List.

Now that's all over with, I can relax until tomorrow night when the whinging engine starts up again "Why can't I have a rack like that?" "Does this lump feel like a tumour? I've heard of those mini tumours with mini mouths and gnashing little teeth too, what if it grows into one of those?!" "My cat doesn't love me anymore!" and so forth. All I fancied was a pint, really.

7:48 a.m. - 2004-10-14

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