I love the way euphoria returns on Fridays and builds and builds throughout my day. I get the coffee in me and chat with pretty ladies and lust for them. All throughout the day.
We have a different food truck park outside the loading dock on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today was a food truck serving Irish-Eritrean food. I got out there and ordered before a significant line developed. People from my office always get mad because I grab my food and close the gate, forcing them to go around to the front door. My boss and I always keep the gate closed (when we aren't there to supervise) for security reasons. I only raise the gate for my favorite people, and I don't care if the rest of these goddamn spoiled office yuppies feel a little inconvenienced that they have to walk around to the front and go in through the lobby.
Secret motel is stocked with food and isolation fluid to see me through the rainy tomorrow. I've been drinking wine, this evening, and looking over a manuscript I'm going to send east for a contest. I have no hope. I try to make it a little better, send it off, and await the rejection letter. Maybe someday I'll be surprised. But, by then, I probably won't care.
I left a short tipsy message in R.'s voicemail a little while ago. And I thought about calling my favorite person in London, but it's in the wee dead hours of morning there. And it might've been a little awkward if she had actually answered the phone and sounded all sleepy-voiced and maybe hearing a man's voice in the background saying, "Who's that wanker, doll?".
I hope this wine puts me to sleep soon. I miss the strangers I dream about.