2002-04-10 - 11:08 p.m.

Had a good day yesterday.

Didn't tell the roommates, and took a whole day off work to clean the apartment.

Believe me, the place needed some work.

Took out four bags of trash, a buttload of wine bottles, did four loads of laundry (including my sheets and comforter), and picked up a buttload of crap. I had listened to five different CDs by the time I had finished the dishes, and I swept and washed the entire kitchen floor (the first time this had been done since I took that Thursday off in mid-March).

The place looked great. It didn't smell anymore. All of the dishes (roughly 5% of them mine) were done, except two of the Girlfriend's that I hadn't noticed during my initial scavenger hunt.

I was no longer afraid to walk on the kitchen floor in my bare feet.

I worked like a dog, promising myself that a nice 6:00 televised Red Sox game with Tim Wakefield on the mound would be my reward.

Well, the Girlfriend got home, and when I mentioned my game, she told me that on Tuesday nights, the Girlfriend and the Roommate always watched the Gilmore Girls.

Fuck. I threw a little temper tantrum, viciously attacking an innocent garbage bag. Wasn't mad at the Girlfriend, I was just mad that I couldn't watch the game.

But the Sox did win the game, and I ended up scoring the most points in my fantasy baseball league that night (sshhh... if you want to think that I don't belong to a fantasy baseball league, just keep thinking that), and the next day at work, one of my bosses (who has been growing out his normally cropped hair and who looks kinda like Sean Penn from Dead Man Walking right now), asked me if I wanted to go with him to the Sox game tomorrow for free!

Karma, I could kiss you! But then I'd be cheating on the Girlfriend, and you'd hook her up with some stud to balance things out.

So let's just keep things platonic for now.

Get home tonight, tired, just wanting to watch some Law & Order on A&E, and who is sitting at my kitchen table, wearing a sleeveless Slayer T-shirt?

Anguish, that's who! And he's hammered and slurring, which is never pleasant. And he's flicking cigarette ashes onto his lap (and ultimately the floor), which doesn't look so spring fresh anymore, I might add.

And the sink is full of dirty dishes, as is the table, as is the counter.

Well, Karma, you couldn't just give me a Red Sox game 'cause I missed my Red Sox game, eh?

Nice work.

Now I drink way more than I should�I'll make no bones about that. But (for the most part), I'm a good drunk to be around, and I usually have the courtesy to remove myself from the situation if I'm losing control and am becoming more of an embarrassment to myself than I usually am.

Anguish is a stages drunk.

1) (1-7 beers) Charming, friendly, fun to be around. Good sense of humor. Can offer focused and logical opinions on a wide range of topics.

2) (8-9 beers) If you don't know him, you haven't quite noticed anything awry just yet. Starting to become inward�only wants to discuss himself (his �writing� or his problems). Whatever topic of discussion he favors has to be the dominant one, to the ultimate exclusion of anyone who cannot/does not wish to participate.

3) (9-12 beers) The loathing begins, and the slurring gets worse. Will only discuss Italian zombie films or Troma. If you don't know anything about either, don't expect to say anything for the next 20 minutes. Not that you'd want to�at this point anything you say seems loaded and double edged to him. Dips between lucidity and passing out. People start glancing at each other, wondering if he's going to do anything crazy.

4) (12-14 beers) Prefers alternate forms of seating, such as the floor. When he isn't feeling sorry for himself, he's belligerently playing "devil's advocate." Often plays the belligerent yet self-loathing "devil's advocate." Not pretty. Will only discuss the problems of others if they relate to his own, and when this happens, he becomes quite animated.

5) (14+ beers) The wait. It's only a matter of time before he passes out. You�re (usually) relieved that nothing valuable was damaged, and you hope he�s OK.

Anyway�

Hung out in the kitchen with the tipsy Girlfriend and Anguish (who, judging by his empties, was in his mid-teens and well into in the slurry pity stage). Thought, hey, if this is where I�m going to spend the next two hours, I hope this David Bowie CD ends soon so that I can put in something I can tune out to. And then I realized that he was HER problem, and that I could just come in here and avoid the two of them altogether!

I don't know how long I can hide in here before it becomes me being rude, but I figure that if I don�t make too much noise in here, then they won�t notice.

Uh-oh. They haven�t made any noises for about five or so minutes. I hope they�re not making out. Perhaps I�d better �go to the bathroom.�

Oh, whatever. Let the Girlfriend have her fun.

Nevermind. She�s crying right now. Never one to share the spotlight, that one.

I guess I shouldn�t be so catty. I�m seeing a friggin Red Sox game tomorrow, and the Beta Band on Friday, and next Friday I think I�m going to the Glass Slipper to celebrate My S.� 21st birthday (if she still wants to go and still wants me to come). Things are actually pretty good.

But I ain�t doing those dishes.

(I�m such a terrible liar).

By the way, my Dad turns 50 today. This will be the last year where I�ll be half my Dad�s age or less�