Saturday, December 29, 2007

Either my beard or my breath or my hands smell like Indian food. I can't remember much of what happened last night except the best bar on earth (pool, ping pong, chess, shuffleboard, live soul music, live jazz band, Sierra on tab) and for some reason drinking coffee. Why the fuck am I at work? Aren't you supposed to come into work on Saturday to get shit done, not post on your stupid blog that nobody reads?

What a fucked up winter.

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