like a record baby, right round, round round.
gosh, what a hangover.
before we drink ourselves to certain cirrhosis, we (Di and i) thought it was in our best interests to sign up for marathons, quit weekly drink-to-death sessions. and living like there’s no tomorrow isn’t good for Sjogren’s, so i declared “i ain’t clubbing for a long time”.
yeah, apparently 2 weeks is a pretty long time.
wine + vodka + whisky = hole where stomach used to be.
the real problem is in saying NO. NO. EN-OH. NOOOOOO.
dali’s friend: hey, dali, let’s go out.
dali’s brain: no, no, you must not.
dali’s mouth: ok! where?
our house is a crime scene ripe for the moral police’s picking. damaged shoes in the dining room. top + bra strewn at the base of the tv console. jeans, belt, random lip balm on rug outside the bedrooms. on screen, this may look like quite the opening to a saucy angelina jolie + antonio banderas sex scene. but in reality, it was the opening to the scene of a mascara-smudged madwoman flailing her arms on her bed like she was flying.
ravi took pics.
am not going to post unflattering pics of myself. that would be so un-myspace of me.
so right now, i am going to work on saying EN-OH. NO.
well, after tonight’s late night teh tarik, supper session. then, er, maybe.