Chug, chug, chug!

I am a raving maniac, I know. Which kind of conceals the fact that I have really nothing to say or account for the past few days except another series of drunkenness that I deserve a permanent stamp on the forehead that screams: Alcoholic Synonymous! Let us survey the assorted poison I’ve been gargling: weng-weng, check. The ever staple beer, check. Jägermeister, check. Now that’s premature fogeyness for you. And that’s how I spent much of the past few days. This week, I’d hit the pool, swim the toxins off until my lungs burst, go into a perverse vegan diet, jog around the flat. No wait, let me check that: wedge the iPod into my ears, yank the volume all the way up, hold the iPod arm length and dance like a hormonally crazed rhino charging around randomly in nothing but white briefs. Someone kick me in the face. Or in my shins.