Plathological

"I haven't worn a skirt that short since I was in junior high--she must be one of those mature, high class escorts. But the diamond bracelets aren't real." (me)

After many martinis and dancing to jazz last night at swans, Joy and I drank rum and tried to write a letter of complaint about an elusive thumbnail cat video on a website: WHERE IS THE CAT POUNCING TODDLER IN BACKROADS VIDEO?? FALSE ADVERTISEMENT!! WE’VE BEEN MISLEAD. But, even after we made the effort to register with a false email address, age, name, and sex, the supposed “contact” link on the site was non-existent/suspiciously non-functional. Humor, my ass. More folly: I tried to call J & G later, like I said I would, but, that didn’t work either. Now, because I fried my old laptop and the computer people have not finished extracting all my old files onto disc yet, I have to spend a good fucking part of the day not only re-writing, but re-typing 4000 words and more. At least I type at the speed of light. There’s one thing in my favor. Otherwise, it was good to get out of the house and drink last night. I haven’t drank in two weeks. The waitress rolled her eyes at me (highlight) because I had the gall to correct her about the presentation of one of my martinis. I think I politely suggested that what I ordered was clearly not what she brought to the table (where's the cherry? where's the chocolate rim?) and the obvious solution would be to either bring me what I ordered or knock that drink off the bill. She didn't like that very much. It was cool though: the fat woman was dancing, and she took up half the dance floor, motherfuckers. Where's your precious b-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g r-o-o-m now, huh?

EDIT:

The waitress knew exactly what I ordered. After I pointed at Ben's drink, Joy said to her, "Yes. She'll have a raspberry chocolate martini." At which point, the waitress repeated the order back to me before heading off to get it.