I Love You, Matt The Miller Man.

You know what I love? Thursday.

The people in my Anatomy and Physiology class are a bunch of filthy cheats. Therefore (comma) I required cocktails after tonight's test. I first called Stef to recruit a drinkin' buddy, but she elected to abstain. No harm, no foul. So txt'ed Ashley, who suggested I save it for tomorrow when we have a work outing to the horse races. Ashley is young. She is an amateur, and yet, I love her. Man, you should see all the typos I have to go back and erase. Anyway, my professor showed up high on painkillers, again, so we had no lecture or lab, just straight to the exam. But God only knows where the prof (prof, like it's 1992) went, so all the dirty cheating bastards in my class went to town looking shit up and whispering answers to each other and that pissed me off because I work damn hard to get A's in all my classes, and I am old and haven't had sex in five years so I have to appreciate pleasure where I find it, goddammit, so filthy cheaters have no place in my life. I became so outraged by the cheaters that I couldn't concentrate so I basically took the exam twice to make sure I didn't fuck up, and since lab and lecture were both canceled, I decided cocktails were appropriate. Jebus, this is the longest paragraph ever.

Anyway, I went home to change clothes and was at The Dubliner by 8:15. Must be a record for a school night. So I texted Ashley, called Erin, Andy's wife, and called Matt. Erin came out despite the fact that she was already in her "house coat" and then Matt came by too. So we had a cozy little trio and it was fabulous. Then Matt ordereds a Tuaca shot. Damn him! I declined the Tuaca and then he used the ultimate weapon on me, goddammit. He asked me, "What happened to the the old Beck?" So I had a lemon drop, and I couldn't even swallow it in one. I am a pussy. I love that we kept Andy's wife out past midnight on a Thursday. Ha! And we talked about him.

So Matt the Miller Man paid the tab, which was totally not the point of calling him, but appreciated all the same and now I am thankful I didn't have to go to a Dallas city park to blog away and can steal one of my neighbors' wi-fi from the comfort of my soup-stained couch and eat Cheetos and drink a fountain Coke and blog away undisturbed except for horrible typing mistakes and bad audio from my CD drive which is currently feebly playing the Breedlove reunion show from two years ago that I haven't listen to since like the first time I heard it, but I've been emailing with my best friend from junior high, who lives in Austin, this week and drinking with Matt and Erin and telling old stories, so the nostalgia level is quite high and requires music from at least 10 years ago. I'm melding the 80's friends with the 90's soundtrack. It may be a bit avant garde for the masses.

Anyway, I never meant to be out and up this late when I left class at 7:15 tonight. I totally thought I might bang a foreigner, but I always think that, so I can't be trusted. Neibaum even told me via text from LA to shag someone English, and I have failed. Again. Dang. I hate that I'm pretty much a dried up old maid. Why is it the only people I can consider having sex with all married other women? Sonsabitches.

Whatever. I know none of the Ghosts of Lovers Past would have made me happy. I will find my short Jewish lawyer and we will have amazing, soul-searing sex and I will laugh at all my exes, the ones in Texas or otherwise.

My cursor keeps going to totally unexpected locations. I swear there's a poltergeist moving it around. It has nothing to do with the Blue Moon I had that was followed by the palate cleansing Miller Lites and the Lemon Drop I consented to because I can't remember what's in a Snakebite, which is a totally girly tasting shot despite the name. Erin had a Buttery Nipple, which I just spelled as "Nibble" which makes a lot more sense, but tastes like shit.

Whoever this jackass is that keeps yelling "Hot potato!" on my Breedlove CD makes me want to strangle him with his own shoelaces. Also, I am not paying $35 to see Dan and Bob Schneider play at this yoga studio where I have to take my shoes off and be quiet, even if it is a benefit show. ReadBecca cannot be contained, and is broke. Bob was nice to me once when I waited on The Scabs in Bryan, Texas. Nice man. Cool hair. What's not to love? Hey, I fell in love-esque with Ian Moore about that time because he wore blue sparkly toenail polish and it was all chipped.

You never can tell what's going to send you over the edge. That toenail polish was damn sexy.

I Feel Sorry For Worms.

In the mornings I see worms that got trapped on the sidewalk when dawn came and burned up like vampires in the sun. It's so sad they A.) they are unaware of the sun; B.) they're so slow they can't escape. Poor worms.

I may have found a new migraine cure. After enduring the pain for nearly 24 hours, I took a trip to Walgreen's, always a good time, and loaded up on supplies. Coca-Cola, bottled water, and ice cream. Then I watched Red Dwarf on PBS. I feel better. I just wish I could sleep. That would be awesome. I forgot to buy an ice pack. I keep using quart size freezer bags, but I am afraid I'll pop it or not properly zip it up and then I'll get glacial melt water all over my favorite pillow. I can't have a sodden pillow in the middle of a migraine crisis. I'm definitely feeling better. I can read the screen without wanting to hold on to something to stop all the spinning. That's good. 'Cause yeah, I'm a geek and stood in line last night to get Harry Potter, but the whole standing in line thing I think triggered the headache so I haven't been able to read past Chapter 10 because of the whole eye-strain-headache syndrome. Mostly I just keep my eyes closed as much as possible in these situations.

I hear police helicopters a lot lately at night. Ah, life in the big city. I think I've had enough typing and screen glare. I think I might be able to sleep some more. The best cure for feeling like crap for any reason is being unconscious. Mmmm, comatose.

Stewart Copeland Reminded Me Why I Wanted A Gong. Because they ROCK. Duh.

When Stefanie casually asks if you have any homework or classes to attend on Wednesday night right before Knocked Up starts, I suggest you say no. Because if you say, "Yeah, I have to read two chapters about old peoples' psychological development and another chapter about death, then I have to write my autobiography using Erik Erikson's theory of development as a model," then you won't get a free ticket and free drinks and free gelato after The Police reunion show that YOU JUST FUCKING WATCHED FROM THE FOURTH FUCKING ROW, FUCKING CENTER, FUCKING EQUIDISTANT BETWEEN STING AND ANDY SUMMERS WHO FUCKING SMILED AT YOU WHILE FUCKING SUSTAINING FUCKING EYE CONTACT, DIRECTLY IN FUCKING FRONT OF STEWARD COPELAND AND YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO TELL PEOPLE HOW FUCKING TIGHT STING WEARS HIS FUCKING PANTS AND THAT'S HOW YOU KNOW HE DRESSES TO THE RIGHT AND HAS A FUCKING GUY BRINGING HIM FUCKING CUPS OF FUCKING TEA AND HOW MUCH THE POLICE FUCKING ROCK AND STEFANIE FUCKING ROCKS AND THANK GOD I DIDN'T FUCKING DIE OR ONE OF THEM DIDN'T FUCKING DIE AND I GOT TO SEE THEM FUCKING PLAY MY FAVORITE FUCKING SONG THAT I SWEAR IS ABOUT THE LOCH NESS FUCKING MONSTER AND YOU WON'T HAVE TO WAIT ALMOST A WEEK TO FUCKING BLOG ABOUT IT BECAUSE YOU HAD TO FUCKING PROCESS THE FUCKING AWESOMENESS OF BEING SO FUCKING CLOSE YOU COULD SEE THE FUCKING WHITES OF THEIR FUCKING EYES.

Whew, that's a lot of fucking. I'm spent.

PS. I finished the dead old people stuff and turned in the paper and took the last test just now, and once again, I am brilliant. The thing about taking online classes is that you see your score instantly and can see how much better you were than the class average. Man, I love ruining the curve.

I gotta bail. It's open mic night at WRC and I'm heard The goddamned Eagles AND Sweet Baby James and now somebody's singing some shit song with Alleluia in the chorus. My other choice was to take my test at a bar. Note to self: Next time, wrap the laptop in Saran wrap and go to the bar. I swear I'm having an aneurysm, I can't take it, he's singing a song he wrote when he was 17. I am so fucking out of here.