oh, it's on

My date: "Blogging is self-indulgent."

Me: "Well, if you don't indulge yourself, who will?"

That was a good synopsis of our date, actually. He is trying to straighten out his life and behave like a normal citizen. I am a scattered potheaded hedonist who believes in perpetual whim-indulgence. He was hot and I would like to sleep with him, but we will in fact probably never cross paths again. It was weird - he didn't seem remotely into me but seemed to think about going in for the goodnight kiss anyway - maybe I'm crazy though, because I certainly didn't move in for it, due to the lack of connection. I probably am crazy. But you know who's fucking really crazy?

The bitch I am perma-scheduled with at the coffee shop. DAMN! This crazyass, bad-haircut-having, abrupt, hypocritical maybe-tweaker has taken to fucking with my shit. Oh hell no. She has been in charge of my training there, as well as any and all stress I have around that job. My friend Renae, who is a regular at this place and basically got my my job there, came in to hang out for a while. And this be-bad-hair-cut-ed bitch tells Renae that she doesn't like me and that I'm not working hard enough. She tells her this while leaving me inside with a bunch of customers. Repeatedly. And I guess she previously bitched about me to Renae. And this behind-the-back action follows her initial self-congratulatory rant of 'I'm just who I am and I say what I feel and tell people when I'm pissed off at them and expect the same.'

So, I have to work with her crazy ass tonight. And it's going to be all business. Deep-frozen business.

After working with her on Saturday night, I got olden-days-style wasted, complete with tequila shots, to celebrate a friend of mine's birthday as well as having sucessfully escaped crazybitch another night. Yesterday found me riding around the exterior of Austin with my friend Tre, who is a real estate photographer. The highlights of the afternoon include schooling his ass at pool (so necessary, since he's taken the poker winnings the last two games) and making fun of hideous work/lives of nasty suburban interior designers. The afternoon also gave birth to my dream of having a secret office behind a panel or moving shelf, which will only be complete if it has a tiny spiral staircase that leads up to a secret second floor nook on top. That would be fucking sweet. I could hide my friends in exile, which has always been an important priority of any potential future I might dream of.

And now, I crawl toward a supposedly errand-ladden afternoon.