Why Didn't Babel Dark marry Molly?

He doubted her. You must never doubt the one you love.

But they might not be telling you the truth.

Never mind that. You tell them the truth.

What do you mean?

You can't be another person's honest, child, but you can be your own.

So what should I say?

When?

When I love someone?

You should say it.

—Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

Subject: Make them stop? Please?
It started at 6:20am this morning, which I believe is the earliest yet, and I was still in bed. It wasn't even the kids running around--though I expect that to start any minute now--but one of the adults, walking so loud that the plaster (or whatever the material is) in the ceiling often squeaked. Can you *please* teach them how to step lightly, or something? I know they don't care that I live down here, they've made it abundantly clear that I'm not worth basic courtesy, but in the thirteen years that I've occupied this apartment, no upstairs tenant has ever been so leadfooted. Not even that awful surfer ten years ago was this bad, and he was actively trying to drive The Ex and I out. There's got to be something in their contract about their noise levels, and if so, they're violating it horribly and as a result severely affecting the qualify of my life. Please?

In the past, I would have bcc'd Vash, who usually replied (privately to me) with something brief but supportive, like good for you, pitu! By the same token, she would often bcc me on similar emails, usually work stuff. I would reply briefly but supportively, something like go vashita! It's one of those little things that always meant a lot to me. We don't do it anymore, because we don't have any contact with each other at all. I miss it, and I miss her.

4:32pm

Last night before rehearsal I went into Modern Times, one of the relatively few places in town to carry Other Magazine. I found it on the shelf and the stood there for a few minutes, reading my article about Paul Reuben's Day. I haven't looked at it since I sent it off in July. It holds up pretty well, I think.

Rehearsal went okay. My part is small, but has potential. On the second readthrough I covered for someone else and quite unfortunately fell in love with that part. The narrator, in fact. The casting is in a slight bit of flux right now, and I officially threw my hat into the ring. I'm not holding my breath, but damn, I want it. It's a spoken word performance, for all intents and purposes. I've fallen out of that habit these past months, and I miss it.

Came across a call for submission for an anthology called Breaking Up is Harder to Do: True Tales of "Gay Divorce". Sounds like it's time to do a sequel to "Two-Sixteen-Ought-Four." It would be called "Three-Twenty-Seven-Ought-Five," obviously. I'd always wanted to write at length about the breakup with Maddy, and I've done so to an extent in Exchange and Descent (Chapter 2, "Aftermath"), but not as a self-contained piece. And, frankly, the more anthologies I submit to, the better. Still breaks my heart that the femme visibility anthology disappeared into the aether, though.

I needed the wool blanket for warmth (duh) on the bus for KrOB's Film Farm: 'Drive-Out' Theater. Ennui and I met at Ritual at six, each with an Urban Food Log in hand, and schmoozed until Chicken John arrived with his bus. I'd always wanted to go on one of his bus trips, but the timing (and other elements) never worked out, so this seemed like a good start. About twenty people altogehter got onto the fairly spacious bus with padded bench seating and screens on either end. The blanket kept us warm quite nicely, and we were both still fully clothed and jacketed, so the itchiness was not a factor.

KrOB showed various short films and intermission clips (sadly not including Celebrity Bowling) followed by a truncated version of Kingpin as Chicken John drove us to the AMF Boulevard Lanes in Petaluma. It was a little scary when we first walked in, as we got many hairy eyeballs from the locals. Whether it was because of me or the short goth girl with deep blue hair or the guy in bathrobe carrying a carton of milk or KrOB or all of the above, they clearly didn't know what to make of us. We kept our distance from each other, and there was no problem.

Otherwise, the bowling trip went pretty much the way I expected it to: that at first I wasn't going to bowl because I was wearing a skirt and boots and it would be too much trouble 'cuz they surely wouldn't have shoes in my size (oh, please), but I quickly got into the spirit of it all and bowled a game with everyone else, easily the first time since...god, I guess the AMF Sierra Lanes with The Ex and Danny and Astrid and whoever else sometime before we all scatted in 1994. I was a lousy bowler then and I haven't improved in my fourteen years of not-bowling, but that was okay, because all the rest of us sucked, too. And there's just something about watching Dr. Hal bowl which can't help but be inspiring.

Afterward, we loaded back onto the bus and drove to the In-N-Out Burger in Rohnert Park. Remaining in the spirit of things, I had a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. I thought I had a bottle of hot sauce in my bag, but sadly, I did not. Oh well. I was in Rohnert Park, not San Francisco, so it's just as well that I ate as the Rohnert Parkians do. On the drive back to San Francisco, we watched the movie which really tied the whole trip together, The Big Lebowski. I liked the movie more this time around, but I still find it overrated. Ennui and I were able to lay down and cuddle fairly comfortably and warmly while watching it, which was the best way possible to watch anything.

We got back into San Francisco—or, more accurately, off the bus once the movie finished—around half past midnight. Ennui and I returned to her place, where I realized that the real key to warmth and comfiness in a bed may be cotton flannel sheets. I believe I need to go shopping.

This morning, Ennui gave me my belated xmas present: Atari Classics Evolved for the PlayStation Portable. I don't actually have a PlayStation Portable, but now I have good reason to keep an eye out for one.

Tonight is my first Ten Commandments rehearsal.

Didn't sleep much. Tossed and turned, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't get warm. The heater in my room is lousy, I had predictable icky emotional things on my mind, and I can't find my itchy yet warm wool blanket, the one with the name of my Great-Uncle Ces stitched into the corner. I honestly have no idea what could have happened to it. Surely I wouldn't have packed it during my recent cleaning jags? It makes no sense, yet it's all I can think of.

Back in August, I wrote a bunch of "infoblurbs" for a new sci-fi blog Annalee Newitz was editing. It's finally up, and I think my stuff is pretty funny, if'n I do say so myself.

It's quite a time commitment, functionally gobbling up my Friday and Saturday nights in March, plus lots of mid-week rehearsals between now and then, but again, that's okay. I'm going to continue working on Exchange and Descent in the free time I have left, and it'll be good to have some light and fun to distract me from this otherwise heavy project. The play will help me not get too buried, to perhaps not spend too many of my Saturdays in ten-hour writing marathons.

I don't know if Vash will see it or not. Her and I officially broke up this morning, for real. We tried and we tried, more than anybody else will ever know.

I never stopped loving her. And I always will love her.

5:58pm

Spent most of today at the Panera Bread near my office, writing. Since doing a system restore on my laptop recently, I've been able to get on their wifi. Whee.

The show must go on: I'm doing Bad Movie Night this evening. As it happens, this is not the first time I've had do this show on the night of a major breakup. I'm getting to be an old hand at it.

Vash and I were going to a Paul Kos exhibit tonight, but due to the gnarly storm she just went straight home to Wonderland. She's hinted at wanting to go to Bad Movie Night on Sunday, but there's no telling what the weather will be like by then. Or if that'll even matter.

5:56pm

At the Sea Biscuit. I briefly considered just staying home, perhaps finally watching Battlestar Galactica: Razor, but it was already loud. They normally aren't home until around seven, but maybe because of the weather they came home or early or never left at all. I don't know, it makes no difference. The child was running back and forth, screaming, a few feet over my head, the voice muffled but the pounding steps reverberating, each one a little icepick into my nerves. They've destroyed my quality of life, and they don't care, because why should they? I came face to face with the mother last week. Quite by accident, possibly when i was leaving on New Year's Eve. She was standing right there when i opened the door between my front door and the entryway. I clearly startled her. I didn't smile or say a word (not even boo, my usual witty rejoinder when I've startled someone), instead just brushing past her. It was the safest thing to do. I still worry that I'll lose my shit all over them eventually, that I'll do something I regret out of pent-up frustration and helplessness. I have it in me.

My usual seat at the big glass table near the outlet was occupied when I got here. I was patient and graceful, and the person sitting there left before long. They were also using a laptop, plugged in and everything, and I had to accept the possibility that they were going to be there until the joint closed at ten, just like I had in mind. And if so, well, so it would have been. Not something I can control. I'm not convinced there's anything I can control, and I'll surely be happier when I stop trying. fortunately, we are not in control.

I finally introduced myself to some of the regulars. I've never been made to feel unwelcome, but I'm here so often, and I get a little tired of feeling anonymous and nameless. Now I'll just be something else, I guess.

I finished typing up the bulk of the edits on Exchange and Descent last night. Doesn't mean it's done, just that I'm more caught up than before. This constant journey through the past, of minute editing not only of sentence structure and grammar but emotional honesty of some extremely painful (and recent) times in my life, is reminding me of something which I tend to forget otherwise: I tried. We both did. Nobody else will ever really understand, even though they all know intuitively or consciously that things end when they're supposed to end.

9:11pm

I texted Ripley to tell her I was at the Sea Biscuit, with the big table to myself if she wanted to share. Which she did. She's working on her stuff, and I'm working on mine.

9:22pm

Maddy used to say that she (for want of a better word) envied her sister for marrying the only boy she ever dated, since it meant she never had to deal with a broken heart. This was supposed to be a good thing. Quite frankly, I don't buy it. For as much pain and heartbreak as I've experienced over the past few years, I also feel like it's been a learning experience. I know a lot more about what it's like to be human than I did before, at least as in terms of relationships. A lot of stories and songs—especially my brother Tom's songs—make a lot more sense to me than they did before. I've lived through the emotions they describe.

Ripley and I went to Spices! last night. Not Spices! II or Spices on Fillmore or Spices! III in Oakland, but the original. Never been before. Quite good, and my body was paying for it later—is heartburn the feeling where, in the middle of the night, your throat feels like it's on fire?—but it was worth the trouble.

6:20pm

This week, both Jack and Ripley (quite independently of one another) observed that my current reading material, Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, is pretty heavy stuff. It ain't light summer reading, to be sure. And it ain't summer. Well, it is in Australia where Ali is, but not where I am.

Where I am at this exact moment is the Sea Biscuit, working on the manuscript. It's a good thing I genuinely enjoy doing this, I suppose. I expect this is where I'll be much of Saturday.

Having dinner with Ripley tonight. She asked, and I said yes. I couldn't think of a good reason to say no.

You better believe I'm coming
You better believe what I say
You better hold on to your promises
Because you bet you'll get what you deserve

She's going to leave her over
She's gonna take her love away
So much for your eternal vows
Well, it does not matter anyway

Why can't you stay here awhile?
Stay here awhile,
Stay with me

All the promises we made
All the meaningless and empty words I prayed
All the promises we broke
All the meaningless and empty words I spoke

What of all the things that you've taught me?
What of all the things that you'd say?
What of all your prophetic preaching?
You're just throwing it all away

Maybe we should burn the house down
Have ourselves another fight
Leave the cobwebs in the closet
'Cos tearing them out is just not right

Why can't you stay here awhile?
Stay here awhile,
Stay with me

All the promises we made
All the meaningless and empty words I prayed
All the promises we broke
All the meaningless and empty words I spoke

Dolores O'Riordan,
"Promises"

So I did. New Year's Eve, I asked her to go away, or at least not stay there. As I was doing it, I was conscious of the fact that it may have been the single most empirically fucked up thing I'd ever done relationshipwise. It just feels very wrong to go away from your partner, or leave them, on a holiday. (Fun fact: I unsuccessfully attempted to break up with Maddy on July 4, 2000. On July 4, 1990, The Ex made a similar attempt to break up with me.) (Conclusion: fuck the holidays.) But she'd gone away from me on xmas morning, and I wanted to spend New Year's Eve with someone who wanted to be with me, who was willing and/or capable of demonstrating the desire for my presence and satisfying my boundless neediness—which at that moment only required the aformentioned demonstration for satisfaction. I wished that person was Vash, but it wasn't, not anymore, there was nothing I could do to change that, and I couldn't stand the thought of another cold holiday.

Ennui told me earlier that the door was open, to be sure to call her if I found myself alone again. After Vash left, I texted Ennui and asked if there was any pizza left. She said there was. I put on clean underwear, scooped Perdita's box and gave her fresh food and water, and headed out.

Ennui met me at the door, and before we went inside, I asked her if she wanted me there. I had to repeat the question, because it genuinely confused her. Did she want me there? Did it matter to her if I was around or not? She said that yes, of course she did. She sounded sincere, and that was good enough for me.

Her and Jack were a bit more dressed up than before, as they'd decided to hit some New Year's Eve parties. Not having been aware of this, I was wearing the same thing I'd been wearing most days lately: a black blouse, sweater, and a long black velvet skirt. Two long black velvet skirts when I was actually out in the cold. Oh well. It didn't look bad, and it's impossible to look drab with the squid. Even tied back demurely like in Creepshow this past October, it still never looks plain. Plus, you know, I'm me. I'm noticeable whether I want to be or not, and that's that. All the same, I retouched my makeup so I would look like I'd made an effort. I also drank a little white wine, and Vash and I had some red wine earlier. So far as Ennui knew, mixing them was not a problem, especially because I didn't have much more than a few sips of each.

After taking a cab to Market and Church—a process which took a good twenty minutes of standing on the corner and feeling glad I was as bundled as I was—we hooked up with Ennui and Jack's friend Edie, a cute girl with short blonde hair. The two parties we were planning on attend were both conveniently located in Duboce Triangle, and Edie suggested going to a rave at SomArts later. But that was later. For now, I just wanted 2007 to be over with.

The first party fairly low-key, held by Jack's coworkers and fellow pornographers. (This is why accompanying me to the NakedSword holiday party was the least shocking thing possible for Ennui: her boyfriend is also the industry. And she used to be a sex worker herself.) I made myself a margarita, and Ennui, Edie and I found a couch in the living room. The music was very loud gangsta rap with gunshots and the whole nine yards from a cable-teevee on-demand music system called Music Choice. The hosts were gracious enough to give me the remote and let me choose whatever music I wanted to play. I found a Big Band and Swing channel which did my soul a world of good.

As we walked to the second party, Ennui asked me what I'd like to do, what would make me feel better. I replied: drugs. There had been grass at the party, both in hookah and joint form, but getting stoned wasn't quite right. I wanted to feel good, not paranoid or overthinky the way I tend to be while baked. I wanted to be at peace with the universe for a little while, to not feel the despair and sadness I've been dealing with these these past days/weeks/months/year-and-change about what's happening to Vash and I, about what's happened. What I really wanted to do was Ecstasy. I'd been trying to do it with Vash ever since getting a couple hits from Jezebel some months back. Vash always said it was her favorite drug and the time we did it for her birthday in 2005 was spectacular, but the timing never quite worked out this time around. (It had briefly been one of our xmas plans. Ha.) Presently, Edie said she had a little in powder form, and she could surely get more at SomArts. The rave was sounding better and better.

Thrown by friends of Edie's, the second party was considerably more hoppin' than the first. It may have helped that it was closer to midnight, though it didn't feel closer enough to midnight for me. The damn year was taking forever to end. Ennui and Edie were experiencing relationship issues similar to mine, Edie's boyfriend distancing himself from her, and Ennui's other extracurricular girlfriend seemed to be doing the same. (It's happening all over.) Ennui and Jack were solid, as are her and I at this point, far more than I'd ever expected us to be.

Phases and stages, circles and cycles, scenes that we've all seen before. Lemme tell ya some more—

My beverage at this party was tonic water mixed with Maker's Mark from Edie's flask. I'd taken a couple shots over the course evening, barely just sips, typical for me. Can't be too careful, I suppose.

The four of us were on the outside steps of the apartment when the year changed, with a nice view of both authorized and unauthorized fireworks. Ennui and I kissed as Jack and Edie kissed, then Jack and I kissed as Ennui and Edie kissed , then Edie and I kissed (nothing like the feel of something new) as Ennui and Jack kissed. The circle of life.

Around one, we decided to make the pilgrimage to the rave. The rest of humanity also decided to do their crosstown party-hopping at that moment, so competition for a cab at Market and Church was trickier than ever, the streets filled with hipsters supporting underdressed party girls wobbling along on high heels, looking like they were going to hurl at any moment. Eventually we caught the F down to Eighth and Market, where it was a tad easier to get a cab, and a cheaper ride overall. (Though I don't think a single trip from any particular point A to B that evening cost more than ten dollars. I tend to forget how much less expensive cab rides are when you aren't going to the frackin' Outer Sunset. That adds up.) Before we were able to hail a cab, a fellow driving a white minivan pulled over and told us to get in. Um, yeah. Don't think so. I shudder to think that other, far more drunk people than us may well have taken him up on the offer.

SomArts is at 8th and Brannan, which was New Year's Eve Rave Central, what with Sea of Dreams happening kittycorner at the Concourse Exhibition Center. I arbitrarily decided our event (which I didn't know was called Freq Nasty until I looked at my ticket stub this morning) was much cooler, since SomArts is a cooler place, and it's where we were, so that was that. Admission was forty bucks at the door, a little steep, but considering how little money I'd spent over the course of the evening and how well Bad Movie Night had done the night before and just how completely fracked so many things are at the moment, it was worth it. Besides, the promise of drugs (drugs!), and I'd never been to a rave before. What better time than the first day of this new year which I'm so desperately hoping will be different-in-a-good-way from the ones which proceeded it?

On the previous New Year's Eve I wrote that I anticipated some moulting before '08 hit. Part of that was knowing it was the year I'd finally get dreads, but I also just had a feeling that a lot of stuff would get shaken up in the next twelve months. I'm wrong about a lot, but I nailed that one. I can only hope that '08 is the year that things settle, that all the pain of '06 and '07 will have been worth it, that I'm stronger and wise and better know what I want and how to get it. And learning to love more is in there somewhere, too.

But it's hard, oh Lord, sometimes it's so hard. In line at SomArts, a friend of Jack's called me ma'am. Then, a moment later, he called me sir. Fun! First pronoun slip of the new year! I said: you got it right the first time.

Somewhat annoyed, he replied: i just wanted to be sure. It's easy to confuse "safe" and "sorry," I suppose.

Though I'd been there a couple times over the years for various events (like when Danielle Willis was in the Drag King Contest), I was mostly familiar with SomArts from when Vash and I worked the tables at the ArtSpan private preview party back in October, so it was interesting to see it in this much louder, crowded context. (Small world: Ennui knows the guy who bought the piece of Vash's art which had been hanging at SomArts during Open Studios.) It was, as I say, much louder and crowded. I used to think raves were super-exclusive, by-invitation-only events, and that not just any schmuck could walk in from off the street. And I suppose that may have been the case during Clinton's first term, but not so much anymore. And that's cool, because it gives schmucks like me someplace to walk into from off the street.

Being a veteran of these things, Edie seemed to know everyone on staff, and half the attendees. Meanwhile, I was a little surprised at how few people I'd recognized over the course of the evening. My friend and recent Outer Sunset transplant Harvey was at the second party, and one of my straight coworkers and fellow pornographers was the rave. He must have been on some good stuff, since he actually came up and spoke to me, something he tries to avoid doing otherwise.

We checked in our coats—I felt very brave, checking in my bag as well, keeping my wallet and my phone in my boots but otherwise going without my notebook or keys—and wandered around the various rooms. We eventually made our way to the Chill-Out Tent, which looked most appealing to me. It was literally outside in a tent, but well-heated, with a small dancing area surrounded by people on pillows and beanbags. Some of the people were cuddling or dryhumping, but most were just watching the lasers and anime projected onto the roof of the tent. God, it looked perfect, a modern opium den. I wanted to be down there amid the pillowy landscape, on Ecstasy and cuddling with Ennui or Ennui and Edie or Ennui and Edie and Jack or any combination thereof (though preferably not only Jack) watching the pretty lights and pictures, relaxed and happy. Didn't matter if it was fake and temporary, which it surely would be. Everything is temporary, happiness and misery and everything betwixt, and when fake is done right it's close enough to the real thing for me. Unfortunately, there wasn't really room for us, nor did it provide the privacy which Edie required for the drugs. My arm was around Ennui as we stood in the room, and I found myself feeling sad and disappointed and a little indignant. Had we come this far, were we so close to this environment, this experience, and were we not going to be able to get in? Story of my life, again? Please, universe? Once?

Edie hunted around a bit more, finally deciding on a somewhat hidden spot inside the main building between the large dancefloor and the coat check. The thing was, since what she had was in powdered form (kinda like the stuff I got Jezebel, which were originally pills but had been ground down by sloppy transportation on my part), the best way to do it was to snort it. People were lighting up pipes and joints all over the place, but what appears to be blow at a distance is best kept on the downlow, you dig?

We had neither a decent surface nor any sort of straw or paper to use as a straw (see why I should never let my notebook out of my sight? Pure anarchy!), we had to do it what I guessed was the old-fashioned way: Edie divided it into little piles on her just-visible palm, and then we would wet our index finger, dab at it a pile, and then snort the stuff into the nostril of our choice. I watched Edie and Jack do it before trying myself. (Ennui abstained, though she encouraged me to help myself.) I was getting a little freaked out by some very ugly gentlemen who seemed to be gathering around us at the time, and I think on my first attempt I got more outside my nostril than inside. They said that any which didn't get breathed up through my nose should go on my gums, so naturally I put it onto my tongue as well. Ah, the glamour of drugs.

I did it better the second time, and definitely felt it go up my nose and into my sinuses, a peculiar sort of tingling. It didn't cross my mind at the time that I was taking it on faith that it was in fact Ecstasy, especially since I didn't know Edie. Jack and Ennui went back years with her, though, and at this point I trust them to look out for me as much as I trust anyone. So when Edie said she didn't have any more Ecstasy but did have some K, I knew I would do it even though I had no idea what it was. I did ask her what K was, and she said it was Ketamine. Oh. Okay. I didn't have the foggiest idea at the time was Ketamine was (let alone that it's used as a cat tranquilizer), but I decided not to ask her for a diagram of the chemical composition. I was snorting drugs at a rave, for pete's sake, drugs offered by a small blonde girl who was a great kisser and the tall light-brown-with-blonde-streaks girl I was dating and who was also a great kisser was all for it, and if I turned it down I knew I would regret it, that it would set a bad portent for the rest of the 2008. Snort, snort. I was definitely getting the hang of it, the powder feeling like it was cutting a sparkly path through my mucous membranes. A few minutes later I felt it gathering like a slugepile in the back of my throat. Right, the sinuses are connected to the throat like that. I'd forgotten. So that always happens with inhaled drugs? I'm not the first one to notice that it's kinda gross, am I? No, probably not.

As we headed to one of slightly smaller dance floors—I'm not sure if it was the Tantra, reVolution, Ambient Mafia room—Edie asked me if I'd like her to get more Ecstasy, and I said yes. The four of us found a spot to dance, Edie sometimes there with us, sometimes not, mostly me with Ennui closeby. There were fractals-but-not-really projected on the big screen above the DJ lasers overhead and strobes other kinds of flashing lights, the visibility of Ennui's face changing by the microsecond, but always what I knew to be her essence right there, and the music was glitchy and harsh-electro which kept changing rhythms thus making it damn near impossible to keep a steady dancing beat, but I didn't mind, it's one of the nice things about my particular style of goth dancing, I can keep on going even when there really isn't much to work with. It was such a stimuli-overkill that it was hard to tell just what was the drugs and what was the environment, nor did I really have any idea what was the E and the K, but I found after a certain point that I was less interested in dancing (though I love dancing and would probably be in a lot better shape if I danced a couple times a week like I did in '99) than I was in touching Ennui, feeling her arm or her back, her skin against mine, kissing and nuzzling and bumping and grinding, both with our clothes on but that was just fine, her dress revealed a lot of her arms and shoulder and back, and we would have made do regardless. I also found I kinda wanted the other people dancing around us to move in a little closer, for us all to be connected. This was where I wanted to be, and this was the escape, the perfect moment that I had been needing and craving, like what Spalding Gray talks about in Swimming to Cambodia. (Ennui tells me she saw Spalding perform a couple of times, as I did, including a revival of Swimming to Cambodia. She also ordered him a drink at a bar, which he refused to acknowledge. Alas.) Ennui was stone cold sober but enjoying every minute of it all the same, liking being the object of my Ecstensified attentions. Edie never was able to get more. It was a short peak, all things considered, but just right.

Ennui and I were ready to go around four. We'd only been there for a couple of hours, but it felt much longer, in a good way. Edie and Jack were off on their own, and I gotta say, finding two short people in a multiroom rave with (judging from the number on my ticket) well over a thousand people in attendance? Tricky. Find them we did, though. Edie decided to go in a different direction, so at a quarter to five it was just Ennui, Jack and I at 8th and Brannan hailing a cab. The rave across the corner looked like it had long since closed down, which was further evidence that ours ruled. No white minivans this time around, but a few black luxury cars did try to pick us up. We stuck with the devil we knew and used an actual cab. By half past five, Ennui and I were asleep in her very comfy bed. (Jack, as is his custom, was in his own very comfy bed in the other room.) I awoke again around nine, the room already bright from the large northwest-facing windows. I slept on and off again for the next few hours before Ennui awoke for real. We both had things we needed to do out of bed—I had at least one rather heavy email awaiting my attention—but weren't able to convince ourselves to actually get up until nearly one in the afternoon. After a late lunch at a sushi place in her neighborhood, we parted company.

11:46pm

I've been feeling dead to the world for the most of the day, but I went to the Sea Biscuit to write. I would have stayed at the Black Light District to relax, but, well, you know. Giraffe and thumpthumpthumpTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPthumpthumpthump and the screaming and the cha-cha-cha. Like the mick with the big glasses said, nothing changes on New Year's Day.