Friends Don't Let Friends Drink and Blog

I've gotta hurry up and post this blog before J. comes down here and demands to use the computer. She has to feed her all-consuming addiction for games on Facebook. She's an avid Farmville junkie and is also a rapidly-rising Mafia king (queen?) pin. She talks a lot lately about whacking some cop and finding stashes of get-away vehicles and how she needs just a few more machine pistols. I'm hoping it's a game, anyway. If the door gets kicked in at midnight and I find myself pulled out of bed and slammed up against the wall with a SWAT weapon in my spine, I'll know better, I guess.

Anyway, I had every intention of coming home tonight from work and doing some work on the book (as per my New Year's Resolution), but I made the mistake of having a (sizeable) martini, and now I'm too loaded to do anything worthwhile. I can't write for shit (this post is proof of that), I can't paint, and reading is pointless, too, since my attention span is fucked. I'm deep into Margaret Atwood's new novel The Year of the Flood, and, as much as I'd like to keep going on it, I just know that if I try right now, I would forget the beginning of the sentence by the time I read the end of the sentence, and I would spend the next few hours until bedtime, reading and re-reading the same friggin' sentence.

(Some of you would say, "That's like reading Atwood without the benefit of a martini", to which I say, "Don't be hatin'!" I heart Marge. I'd like to get to know her well enough to call her Peggy.)

Luckily, before I got too blitzed, I managed to get caught up on my favourite blogs. I have really pared back in my blogs as of the New Year. I used to have a number of them that I would go to, but now I just have a select few. They are in the sidebar, if you're interested, and I urge you to give them a look, as they are terrifically funny in a way I wish that I was funny.

I used to read Dooce, but I have to be honest: that kid, Leta? Gave me the friggin' creeps. And while Heather is far more engaging and funny and insightful than your typical mommy blog, in the end, it just couldn't hold my attention any longer.

I also read ScaryDuck for a long time. Brilliantly clever man, especially his salacious posts as diarist Samuel Pepys. I stopped reading him recently because (okay, this is really honest now), I didn't feel really welcome when I made a comment. I'm sure it was just me projecting all my junior high anxieties onto this poor man's blog, but I always felt like the unpopular kid trying to fit in with the popular kids when I posted there. Also? Scary is a devoted Arsenal man, and my brother-in-law is all about the Hotspurs, and if he ever found out I was consorting with the enemy, he would divorce my pregnant sister, forcing her to hang around the nearest chipper van, trading blowjobs for free meals. Or something.

Have I mentioned that my sister is up the stump and expecting her first child? Maybe I did. Then again, I get confused between what I've posted on Facebook and what I've included in my blog. Goddamn, Facebook has made things complicated, hasn't it? And that's ironic, because theoretically, Facebook should be easier, beause there's none of the anonymity or subterfuge we habitually use in blogs in order to enjoy the (deceptive) luxury of almost total honesty. But on Facebook, you're all out there with your real name and your potential for constant status updates and pictures and omigawd, it's just really too transparent sometimes. It makes me long to crawl back under my blog-rock and hide.

Have you ever noticed that your thighs get really heavy when you're drunk? And your feet are really, really far away.

Anyway, I gotta go. J. is here now, and she wants to check online for cheap flights to Britain. And I gotta go drain my clam.