Ave Sangria.

So last night was fun. The vegetarian restaurant was closed (which we discovered after a trek through the cold-ass pouring rain, thankyaverymuch Miss Alice), so we all met at a pub for greasy giant onion rings, fries, and giant pitchers of sangria. Healthy vegetarian meal? Sure.

When you are in a very dark bar in very close proximity to a very warm fireplace after being out in very shitty weather, sangria makes you sleeeeeeeepy.

We spent quite a bit of time talking about our respective dating foibles and I think that between the three of us we could very possibly open up a dater's Hall Of Shame in which no embarrassing incident is left untouched, no odd personage is left undated, and no bizarre situation is left alone.

The play was fantastic. I am a long-time fan of Steel Magnolias because I think the casting and writing are superb, and the guy performing did a bang-up job. If you are in the neighborhood and want to catch the show, it's at the Br0adway Arm0ry for the next few weeks, and I highly recommend it.

Afterward we went to a bar in Andersonville and drank some more, further enveloping me in my alcoholic coma, and I have decided that I must move back downtown.

The south side, she is fine, but she is sorely lacking in social opportunities as well as, well, people, and I am tired of having to jump this train and than train then this cab and that train just to get where I'm going.

The problem is that I cannot afford it and most likely would not be able to afford it even if Social Security finally began paying me regularly like they're supposed to.

I discussed this at length with Aaron on the way home, wondering whether I could make it as a successful drug dealer/manufacter, or perhaps a madam. I could grow marijuana in my bathroom, perhaps. I could bone up on my chemistry and learn to produce MDMA. I could start dating a vet and steal all of his ketamine.

I could hire a bunch of my neighbor's trampy little teenybopping kids and train them to be hos, or I could start importing smack from Mexico.

I could breed pit bulls. I could sell dangerous weapons. I could transport deadly viruses a la Saunders on 24.

All of these career moves could possibly land me a fat pile of cash, and then I could buy a nice little brownstone in Lincoln Park in which I could spend the rest of my days being glared at by anorexic women with perfect highlights, French manicures, and expensive running shoes.

My kid could then go to Catholic school and get smacked around my nuns, I could take up odd jobs like dog walking, house sitting, and plant watering, and all the neat little perks of the city would be within reach.

One can only dream.

Tonight's agenda includes a date with a blast from the past. I am nervous, I have nothing to wear, and I need to exfoliate.

Happy Sunday.

2:02 p.m. - 2004-04-25
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