Egad, freaking blackbirds.
As you probably know from the previous post, last night I was a little the worse for wear. Finally tottering off to bed around 2am, the heat and general stickitude kept me awake until around 3am.
This day began at 7:30am with a neurotic blackbird sitting on the roof near my room screeching a single note every second or so, with alarm clock regularity and volume. I attacked the little bugger with bits of balled up paper, water pistols and bleary-eyed, hungover shouting. Does the bugger stop? Does it fuck. The little bastard kept going even after I'd got it with some compressed lecture notes, it just moved out of reach. Apparently it's what they do if their nests get raided, a sort of distress call - hardly surprising as the dumb fuckers would try and nest in a cat's litter box if people didn't stop them - it amazes me they've survived so long. Eventually I gave up and lurched painfully out of bed, aching from the walk home from the pub and the harmful intoxicants going sour in my bloodstream.
I really shouldn't drink, I never cut a sexy figure, zombified in the morning. The annoying thing is that I didn't plan to last night, but when I got to the bar the words 'pint of carlsberg mate' escaped my mouth before I realised that wasn't what I wanted. Although I could have stopped drinking last night after one pint, the group I was with were so tense and uncommunicative that I had to get them wasted to get any kind of entertainment out of them. I think my friends are going out tonight and - much as being neither out nor scromping on a friday night gives me the screaming heebie jeebies - I think I'm going to give it a miss.
Now Kristen's blog entry has made me remember the loneliness and heartbreak that I was drinking last night to forget. Arse.
I'm a wreckage.
-Ben
