sweatpants

Perhaps I should have just stayed home to recuperate instead of going to see Tziganes for the third time yesterday (after succeeding in getting the brunch shift off).

Perhaps I should have just gone straight to bed after the show on Saturday night, instead of filling my empty belly with red wine, bouncing around the small studio to a fabulously mixed CD of danceclub hits of the 80s and 90s, stumbling into the Gladstone at midnight with my wonderful roommates with the giddy with the anticipation of singing/swaying backup to Fabio's karaoke moment (which never came -- boo-urn!), drinking a little more wine, eating icky pizza, taking it to the Matador where we bounced around some more with losers defeated contestants of the recent Rock Paper Scissors World Championships and passing out on the coffee table shortly before 6AM.

Then my cold wouldn't have gotten so bad.

Hell no.

It's kind of nice to be home, having called in sick, eating mom's soup (minced wintermelon and pork and crab and mushrooms! nummers!) Looking for in-grown hairs out of my brother's face. Responding to work e-mail in my sweatpants. Barking at someone over MSN and disinviting him from our PunkinParty because he's too cool to read Evites and thinks his "general statements are totally true." Feeling Brie purr in my lap as I type.

I should abuse myself more often when I'm sick :) Hurray for sick days!