||[Oct. 20th, 2003|03:57 pm]
or: October 20th and 1/2|
Much like being hung over, but in a good way. Like waking up in an ill-fitting suit and going with your friends to get migas and mimosas. Oh, and just for the record, the ill-fitting suit is ill-fitting because I've lost so much weight, and not because I bought it that way. Though I did buy it that way. I always do.
What they don't teach you in art school is what staying up unreasonable hours writing code in an empty office building can do to your mind and sense of time. When you're walking down the hall on your way back from eating Taco Bell and you drop your single serving bag of taco trash into one of 1000 tiny trash bins at random, only to notice it hitting a very similar bag that you dropped there yesterday, take a drink. When another five hours pass and you drop another taco bag into the trash bin just to keep up the tradition, take a drink. When you decide to cancel game night because you've got code to write, and you're not really sure what night it is anyways, take a drink. When you've been listening to the audiobook version of Chuck Palahniuk's Diary on your little excursions to the Border, and the mood of the book takes over reality, take a drink. When the protagonist goes on and on about how great art only comes through suffering, and all you can think about is how you want to sleep, but you've still got code to write, and how your ghastly dry eyelids are rebelling against your sense of duty, take a drink. of diet coke, of course.
It's Saturday night, probably 3 in the morning, and I'm walking out of the office towards my car. Spread out below the parking garage is a chaotic mess of smashed pumpkin pieces, from about 5 pumpkins, no doubt dropped from the top of the garage. Upon closer inspection, mixed in with the pumpkin rubble is a microwave, dented all over, but still somehow intact. It would probably still run if you plugged it in, and it looks a lot cooler now. I'm reminded simultaneously of Chuck Palahniuk talking about how he used to be in the Cacophony Society (Just for the record, dressing up like Santa Claus and drinking heavily does not automatically make you an artist), of Billy Corgan in all his whiny, angsty glory, and of dropping a fridge on an effigy of Chi-Chi. What you don't understand you can make mean anything.
My weekend was spent in a haze of tacos, code, and audiobooks, when normally it's spent amongst friends. I can't help but hope that my friends made the most of their weekends. My friends' weekends. Your weekends.
Just for the record, today's weather is tired, with a heavy chance of imitating the effective repetition in Diary.