February 4

The amount of whiskey that I can drink is profound and horrible. The decision to have Irish coffee at 6p is not the proudest or best I've had, but one would think it would at least keep one awake. Yet here I am, awake in the queer glow of morning, sporting a hangover.

I would like to write, while I am still productive, on the feeling of being drunk. I don't like the churning in my stomach and the uneasiness in my throat. Laying down feels like falling. It is the overwhelming shame that feels the best, the grousing, the holding of my brow, the pensive thoughts, the absolute seriousness of it. It is curious and awesome.

I did not make it out to Park Slope to see a friend's wife's solo show (a birthday show, no less), which I did intend to attend. Last time I made it slope-wise to the Slope it turned out badly, so maybe I dodged the mistake bullet there.

Last paragraph was littered with puns, sloppy writing.

All this, and above all, I forgot to call the girlfriend. She reads this blog and I am sorry and I will buy you something lovely. Maybe a delicious meal, for which I will be completely sober.