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Charge baby, charge

For those who care to know such things, there is an exquisitely flat rodent plastered to the macadam right by the staircase on 22nd street. It looks like a furry, raspberry-filled pancake with a tail; at least every third car must have swerved to run it over again, because its body is raised not so much as a millimeter above the surface of the road.

Sorry for that. Anyways…

I have this awful habit of letting my cell phone’s battery ebb away to the dying point, then forgetting to plug it in overnight. Instead I charge it for about half an hour at a time, sometimes for as little as five minutes, before I go somewhere, and then the cycle repeats. It’s like a horribly old dog that wants to lie down for a spell, but I just keep delivering kick after vicious kick into its bony ribcage to make it walk one more mile. Sooner or later it’s going to kick the bucket for good when I’m trapped in the middle of Arizona desert with no food and water. That will show me — or would, if there was a snowball’s chance in hell that the damn thing would get service in the first place. It’s plugged in right now, hopefully appending a few bars of juice to its current sole one, and I’m casting it venomous glances as I write this, preparing to go out for some serious drinking.

Ah, the fabled twenty-one run. I’ve honestly never understood all the hoopla surrounding one’s legal coming of age, alcohol-wise; it’s not like we haven’t been drinking under the table, so to speak, for at least three years before. Regardless, there’s no better excuse I know of to drink loudly and to excess in a variety of locales. Dillon’s twenty-one years old today, and I’d like to take this opportunity to wish him happiness and good health before contributing to his slow, inevitable destruction by booze. We’re starting in around half an hour at the College Inn, which, for those unfamiliar with the U-district, is at the extreme southern end of the Ave, and working our way ever northward until we hit the Knarr on 55th or Dillon dies from alcohol poisoning, whichever comes first.

Oh, and Nathan is back in town from Mexico. I know this because his computer monitor was still glowing brightly and his belongings were heaped on top of his bed when I walked in the door about an hour ago, but the boy himself is nowhere to be seen. I suppose I’ll leave him a note declaring my whereabouts and activities and catch up later this evening – it’s only fitting that the first time I see him in three months I’ll be blindly, staggeringly drunk.

Posted in Musings.


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