Helpful hints

Part 3 in a series.

When you are helping your significant other carry a table down from the attic, try to avoid catching the glass top of the table with your forehead when it comes loose.

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyll-llantysiliogogogoch*

I'm off to Wales for a week. Probably won't post.

* For those of you that don't know, that's a Welsh place name. Seriously!

In which I'm briefly mistaken for a drug dealer

I'm coming up the hill from the city, and just at the edge of the park where the junkies hang out, a man is busily tying his shoelace, only they're already tied. He eyes me intensely on the way up, trying to look inconspicous and failing miserably. He's razor-thin and unshaven, and looks half-dead from sleeplack, but still isn't your average breed of junkie fauna: he has a cell-phone in a holster, and a leatherman tool in his belt. He looks a little too together. A little too alert. As I pass him, he mutters into the air, but obviously to me, because I'm the only one around: "Are you the guy with the speed?"
-Pardon?
-Do you have some speed?
-Um. No... Sorry.
And I walk on, thinking "I seriously need to shave more often."

I love this part of the city. It's never boring around here.

Martini, please. Hold the arsenic.

I went out on and painted the town red with my old friend I. from high school last night. Had a great time, but woke up with one of those ridiculous hangovers that just will not quit. I swear to god, somebody put ferrocyanide in my martini or something. I had a Bulgarian (no offense) dance band playing a slow 80's hair-rock-ballad version of the Macarena in my head all day. I had Bukowski, standing on my back in spiked shoes, doing brain surgery on me with a pneumatic drill while the Sex Pistols were playing a live show in the next room.

I had fifteen thousand tapdancers get up and dance through my head, followed -insult to injury- by the Riverdance ensemble. The last one of the little leprechauny fucks left with my liver and my wallet.

Later, when I was speaking in the great white telephone, hugging the bog, calling out the name of allmighty Ralph, the porcelain deity, Torquemada and the entire Spanish Inquisition ("nobody expects the Spanish inquisition") banged down the door to mount me in the iron maiden and stick red-hot pokers through my ears.

Am I being overdramatic? It's just that I'm a little upset with the fact that I get hangovers that are disproportional to my actual buzz now. I had 6 beers and a Martini last night, for crying out loud! That's nothing! I barely even feel that! And yet, here I am, 4.30am the following morning, and I still have a colossal hangover.

Screw this. I'm going to go make breakfast and then go to bed. Rock on, y'all. I'm a total wuss.