Z ruined a perfectly bad party. Afterwards I walked with Z many, many miles back to his house. Throughout the ordeal Z kept making incoherent threats at me. I braved on.
Now I'm tired and reveling about how much of a genius Jack Gilbert is. His poem Odyssey starts of with the line, "this means trouble." Maybe I paraphrased it wrong.
Doesn't matter.
What the mind remembers best is a complete playset.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
1AM, Stumbling, Drunk
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