Sometimes It Works . . . Soemtimes It Don't

(Disclaimer . . . . . it's 3 in the morning on a Wednesday and I need to work tommorrow . . . . . errrr today)

Sometimes the most friendly people turn out to be the most fake.
Sometimes your instincts are all you have
Sometimes it only makes sense in the long run
Sometimes triumph can supercede doubt
Sometimes it's the other way round
Sometimes you wanna run screaming down College St., but you'll know she'll hear you
Sometimes you wanna hide in a stairwell telling the world that you don't need it


Sometimes it works
Sometimes it don't

Live for the former because more often it's the latter.


When it is the former . . . . . whoah, look the fuck out, 'cause it's gonna be a doozy.




Try is the operative word . . . . .

why the fuck not? honestly, why the fuck not?


get down with your bad self




ajc

A Good Weekend Means A Crappy Monday

There was tons of goodness from Thursday on. Tons.

A baseball game was taken in on the Thursday night. The Jays did their best impression of the French army and surrendered in the first inning without any fight. Of course, when you put together an infield of Chris Gomez at third, Chris Woodward at short, Frank Menechino at second (and leadoff!), along with special guest star Dave "Double A" Berg at first, you have only yourself to blame. I went with Dave and Jeremy and we snuck in a mickey of vodka, which we promptly used to add spice to our carbonated beverages. Unfortunately we almost got caught as we were filling up in the top row - an usher snuck up on us to give us All Star ballots. Well, there wasn't so much stealth involved in as much as our half-assed attempt to hide the bottle. So, presumably while the usher went to get reinforcements we quickly emptied the contents of the bottle into our drinks and hightailed to the opposite end of the stadium - where we spent 15 minutes filling out All Star ballots with Dave Berg's name. Hey, why not?

The game was good, and so was drinking afterwards.

Work Friday went by in a blur. I did as little work as possible in as much time as possible. Wheeeeeee.

Friday night Brent, his girlfriend Jess and I met up at Dave's condo, and we promptly drank a lot. We drank White Russians on the condo's communal rooftop patio and shuffled off to My Apartment where we met up with Wee Kirsty and Evan. A good time was had despite the sardine nature of the club. Kirsty went out to make a phone call and for reason the bouncers decided not to let her back in, so she went ballistic on them. I wish I had seen it. For one thing I would have loved to see a Scottish girl go off on the bouncers.

I ended up waking up on Dave's couch with a headache that wouldn't go away until later that evening - when I began drinking again. "Bite the dog that bit you" is one of Chris Bittle's favourite sayings, and it proved true in this case. I haven't been this hungover in a while. It wasn't until later that I realised that it wasn't the beer that did it to me, but it was the shots that I had forgotten about . . . . .

So Dave, Kirsty and I made breakfast and ate it up on the roof in glorious sunshine with an increadible view. It was a great morning. The nap later was even better.

Saturday night was more laid back but just as enjoyable. I went to Scott and Megan's for dinner and Emma, Caitlyn (who I haven't seen in over a year) and Megan's friend Jenn all came. We had a great dinner and an even better time at the Madison, where we ran in to Eric and Laura.

To top it all off, Rick came over on Sunday and we were able to polish off a song written a week ago and get a completely new song all figured out and recorded. Bliss.

Now I am sitting here at work, way too tired from the festivities of the weekend to really care about the crappy things I have to do here. Not only that but there's a Subaru sitting forlornly in my garage like a prisoner on death row, waiting for its future to be decided. I don't want to sell it, but it looks like I have to.

Crap.


ajc