2003-08-06

“Heineken? Fuck that shit. Pabst Blue Ribbon!”
Frank Booth, Blue Velvet

Urgh, I’m feeling barely vertebrate today. I started off the evening last night with Bass Ale and David Lynch, but things took a downward turn fairly quickly and the next thing I knew I was drinking Molson Export and laughing like a cracked-out retard at Freddy Got Fingered. I’m really exploring the dregs of society lately, huh.

Work this morning is like a hammer to my soul. Do people instinctively know somehow when I’m hung over? (It’s such a rare event!) Do I emit some sort of pheromone on these occasions, drawing hordes of mindless coworkers to clamour about my cubicle like so many rutting warthogs? I’ve barely had a moment’s peace since I dragged my sorry ass in here at a whisper before nine. My internet surfing is falling sadly behind, and my morale is so low I might get the bends if I unexpectedly cross paths with someone who isn’t a raging mongoloid. I tell you what, people, misery may love company, but I don’t; so drag your knuckles back to your subterranean lairs like good little troglodytes. In other words, FUCK OFF.