Last night Mr. S and I had an argument about Lebanon. I felt tight inside while I spoke because I’m ready to burst into tears any time I think of Miss E.G., but I also felt like the argument was more of a search for common ground than a pissing competition. All this as exposition to the fact that he didn’t piss me off at all, but some other guy who shared my attitude and kept interrupting with non-sequiturs did. Boo. I would rather argue sensibly with someone who disagrees with me than sit around whipping myself into a frenzy over a barely-connected de-contextualized series of facts with someone who agrees with me. That’s what dim people who like Noam Chomsky and Mark Steyn do and then there's no dialogue or education.
Of course, I was so shitfaced it’s possible all the wonderful sense I thought Mr. S and I was speaking was dribbling slurring, that we were rudely hogging the conversation, and that what sounded like non-sequiturs were genius on legs. But that doesn’t change the fact that Noam Chomsky/Mark Steyn fans suck.
Yeah, so, last night I was absolutely shitfaced and people either had no idea or else knew just by looking at me the depth of the shitfacedness. Also, men kept trying to kiss me. Well, not ‘kept’. Just two within twenty minutes. What they had in common was that I had no idea who they were. What the fuck is with that? Why the fuck did they think I’d be interested in kissing some total fucking stranger who I hadn’t even had the chance to smell yet? And how the fuck was I sober enough to swiftly reduce them both to craven apologies by analyzing aloud the quality of their emotional states if willing to foist themselves on girls with no reason to be interested in them, but not sober enough to realize when I’d drunk enough that I should stop fucking drinking?
Fuck, I’m still drunk. Otherwise I feel okay. Slightly poisoned, but okay. I think I need food now.