(no subject)
Oh New Year's Eve, I see you there, peaking round the corner at me. My plans for you are always last minute and this year shall be no different. I'll weigh the options, then decide on none of them.
Date Rape Row holds no appeal for me. In fact, there's nothing for me in all of Lodo. Though I fear amateur night in Capitol Hill--when SUVs and Keds invade my regularly-established watering holes--almost as much.
I asked Jon if he'd accompany me to the Slim Cessna show at The Bluebird and got a less than enthusiast [Pause, stare, stare] “I will go with you," which, in Jonspeak, translates loosely into: "I don't and won't have an alternative and you always do the planning while I conveniently tag along, so I will begrudgingly say yes to whatever you want." So that's out.
I could always stay in and phone my family. Just kiddin'. I did manage to get a hold of everyone on Christmas and say a few words amid their gravy slinging and child scolding. "You should come out here next year," everyone who felt obligated to me only because we share bloodlines said. "It does sound like so much fun," I sarcastically told my sister when I heard her very drunken husband cursing loudly at their two dogs who had apparently licked every one of the 50 shrimp they had planned to serve pre-dinner.
Equally as disturbing was the revelation that my sister is taking financial advice from my father. I learned that my dad is a bad source of information when I was five and he told me the confessionals at Church were "telephone booths to God." Learning, later in life, that he believed that McDonald's puts edible plastic in their sundaes only confirmed what I already knew.
Luckily, my sister doesn't have much money and I won't be home on New Year's Eve to hear her lose it all.
Date Rape Row holds no appeal for me. In fact, there's nothing for me in all of Lodo. Though I fear amateur night in Capitol Hill--when SUVs and Keds invade my regularly-established watering holes--almost as much.
I asked Jon if he'd accompany me to the Slim Cessna show at The Bluebird and got a less than enthusiast [Pause, stare, stare] “I will go with you," which, in Jonspeak, translates loosely into: "I don't and won't have an alternative and you always do the planning while I conveniently tag along, so I will begrudgingly say yes to whatever you want." So that's out.
I could always stay in and phone my family. Just kiddin'. I did manage to get a hold of everyone on Christmas and say a few words amid their gravy slinging and child scolding. "You should come out here next year," everyone who felt obligated to me only because we share bloodlines said. "It does sound like so much fun," I sarcastically told my sister when I heard her very drunken husband cursing loudly at their two dogs who had apparently licked every one of the 50 shrimp they had planned to serve pre-dinner.
Equally as disturbing was the revelation that my sister is taking financial advice from my father. I learned that my dad is a bad source of information when I was five and he told me the confessionals at Church were "telephone booths to God." Learning, later in life, that he believed that McDonald's puts edible plastic in their sundaes only confirmed what I already knew.
Luckily, my sister doesn't have much money and I won't be home on New Year's Eve to hear her lose it all.