Saturday, September 18, 2004

Forty drinks/Eleven Hours= A very dedicated dead girl. Of course her feat is negligible compared to the daily exploits of my legendary son of Ireland roomie, James. On a good day he would start drinking at 10am continue throughout the day and night, usually stopping somewhere around 3:00 am with a twenty-four plus drinks in his system. What was he like on a bad day; double the drink intake and you have a good idea. He was collegiate idol, my Kelly Clarkson if you will.

By the way I do know that it is a bad form to speak lightly of the dead, however I am going to make an exception in this case. Sometimes it is necessary to cull the stupid from the herd. I have participated in many an alcohol-laden night, sometimes consuming a couple dozen drinks in the course of a few hours.

One particular night I drank to the point where I vomited blood, lots and lots of blood. My friends decided the best course of action was to lay me on my back in bed and to continue partying on. I don't really blame them, since shortly before the red sea parted from my mouth, I threatened to throw each of them out my window and actually did throw a telephone at my roommate of the time. Luckily, I missed his head by two or three inches and instead shattered the phone against the wall. Anyway, I was left alone, up to my own devices, and very possibly dying; if I had died it would have been sad. I doubt the world would have ever recovered from my loss, I am that damn important. However, it would have been my fault that death occurred and had a misanthropic blogger decided to make light of it so be it. Dead people have better things to worry about, like brains and staving off the demons of hell.

Go to Hell

Pinata: Survival Island is the reason why I watch movies. It is pure, unadulterated cinematic crack. AMC Fear Friday kicks ass.

And, I thought Nicholas Brendon had no career outside of Buffy.

Go to Hell