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I'm sitting at work, for some reason listening to Beyoncé, thinking that I've not appreciated Beyoncé's music enough, but more prominently thinking about an awkward series of interactions I just had at my house, wondering whether or not I should be embarrassed if awkward things happen in my own digs, trying to shake off the whole thing in general so I can do some fucking work, and finally attempting to finish this post, ending a drought of activity for this sorry little on-line journal of mine.

Here's what I wrote and left unfinished and unposted yesterday at work (yes, after sipping a certain measure of amber liquid):

"A few things happened last night. None of them were important.

I am unsurprised, yet dismayed all the same, to find that my friends seem to grow funnier and more rich in character every day, while I just get drunker and sadder. Sure, it's fine material for my forthcoming memoir, to be published by HarperCollins in 2024, but I"

It ends there. I don't really know where I was going with that--likely toward some snarky twist that would resolve the thought logically without actually having confronted its twisted mental origins. Upon the urging of a few of my housemates I will be seeing a therapist this coming week, and how that will come out I can't say. But regardless, I'm going to try and avoid the spirals into shameful, self-destructive behavior that have tended claim my mid-week activity as of late.

I don't know what "A few things happened last night" refers to; nothing actually did happen on All Hallows' Even, I simply sat around in my regular clothes and did not have great experiences with exciting people. I did lie on the couch and zone out to melancholy tunes, so, maybe that's a night well spent. I don't know.

This week might be interesting. I'll keep you posted, invisible audience.