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January 6 1998, Tuesday

A

ll day, Matthew Hart lay in bed, although he occasionally disappeared into the bathroom and lingered there for long periods. I'm sure he feels extremely glamourous now.

Shira the Dog doesn't know quite what to make of this. She sits in the upstairs hallway surrounded by chunks of vomit. Whose vomit, I cannot say for sure.

I guess I should schedule myself a shower some time; I haven't showered since January 2nd. But it's awfully hard to get into the bathroom this afternoon, the weekend-junkies seem to need the toilet almost continuously.

T

he sky is cloudy and the air is so hot and humid that I had to open my window for circulation. This is wacky January weather, though last year at this time we had the exact same thing.

I really needed to return my scanner, but for some reason I thought I had a lot of time to do so. Not so; when I looked at the receipt I saw that the deadline was today. So I fired up my Dodge Dart and headed up to Circuit City and secured my full refund. While I was there at Albemarle Square, I picked up a litre of vodka, the basis for most of my mind alterations.

B

ack at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I was sipping my Constant Comment vodkatea with Matthew Hart when suddenly they all arrived: Jesse, Cecelia the Brazilian Girl, Morgan Anarchy and Fatima. They weren't too drunk, despite the 40s and sherry they were drinking. I don't know, we weren't really in any mood to be entertaining, but I let Jesse and Cecelia check their email while Matthew watched the cooking channel and our visitors complained about the teevee. Deya sat quietly on the couch with Wilbur the Cockatiel on her shoulder.

I

n the evening Deya and I watched Beavis and Butthead reruns with Shira the Dog, occasionally encouraging Shira to howl. It was hilarious. I wonder if Shira thinks that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

The night was so warm that I slept with the window completely open.

one year ago
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