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I suppose it's finally time for bed. It's been twelve days of 24-hour Mickey's and Sparks and Terminal Gravity. Now I feel like I know these drinks like people. People I can trust and people that don't always say thank you but, in the bottom gulps of their pooling hearts, still actually don't resent the open arms they're always showered with. We dropped Julie and Sean off at the airport tonight after dinner at the hands of Shane, our resident chef. After taking in a film with Courtney and Clint, I crawled into the attic to work on some photographs. Tonight I finished arranging forty of them and that's just good enough to be able to resume crawling, this time into the bed. Lately my blood alcohol level has been the exact level of blood. So I've been shivering, and frowning when I have to get out of bed. Tomorrow morning I have another photoshoot in North Portland, so I need to rise somewhat early to catch an appropriate bus.
More than likely tomorrow I will also have the first prints from my recent tour with Unwed Sailor. I'm keeping the thought I have in my head of the Devil's fingers, crossed. After a month-long trip, seeing first prints is a quiet little horror that is always somewhat welcome, but creates a nervous sensation that's not unlike anxiety or stress. And a few beers before coming home, I'll have that too. It will compliment the rum and soda I plan on having before getting on the bus.
Also, I posted the rough draft of a new story here, at Please Don't Leave Me's profile on MySpace. I was pretty surprised that with all the recent goings-on I could actually find the time alone to get a new story done, so I had a pleasant rest that night despite the four Sparks in my system that truly almost had my head squeezed dry of moisture. I think I drank a gallon of water the following morning because I couldn't feel enough moisture in my body to make it to the bus stop under the haze of the afternoon sun without recuperating.
I own a mule?
Good-night, sailor.
JARET.
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