Man. This weekend was a freaking roller coaster.
My new buddy Jennifer and I hit South Beach Friday night. Shawn was supposed to come along, then ditched us for a boy (boo, hiss).
I didn't get home until 8 a.m. Saturday morning.
Jennifer and I met about a million people in Miami.
We arrived sporting a baby seat in the back of the car.
I danced my ass off.
I asked a guy with gold teeth over and over again what the hell is the
point of his precious-metal-mouth, and I don't think he ever could tell me.
I took a picture of her with a superbeefy bartender.
We lost our camera.
We were sad.
She gained a pair of sunglasses.
We felt better.
We met more people.
We ditched more people.
I got to wear an orange derby hat for a while, but it looked better on
Jennifer.
We were disappointed when the bar closed at 4:30 a.m.
I barely spent any money.
She still has my drivers license.
We hung out in a parking garage.
I chattered almost the whole way home to keep her awake. I'm sure I
drove her insane. We went and looked at the ocean for a while.
And of course, I couldn't sleep. I bopped around for a while before
finally konking out. Woke up at noon. Konked out again for a few hours.
The rest of the weekend was spent vegging with Neal. We've been missing each other lately, 'cause I'm so busy.
I recently gained a number of new responsibilities at work, and that
has greatly increased my workload (and fortunately, my pay). But man. I'm so tired, that after a full night's sleep, all I want to do is lie down on
the floor of the shower and pass out until the next day, when I'd awaken
pink, pruny, and squeaky-clean. It's like a tiredness I can't shake, and I'm
starting to get scared that it won't get any better, and I'll burn out in a
spectacular display of fire and screaming and hysteria and flying bits of torn-up scripts and press releases.
Let's hope not, but I'm open to any suggestions for prevention.