Like a Kite...

I've always said that when you were drunk, the little voice inside your head telling you not to do something stupid, ie. dancing on a coffee table with a lampshade on your head is a lot easier to ignore. When you are stoned, the little voice is completely silent.
When you are drunk AND stoned, as I am now, and also damn tired, the little voice says things like "write in your blog! The internet wishes, no, NEEDS to know of your debauchery for the collective entertainment of humanity!"
So I am thankful that only a handful of people read this crap.
It's been an exciting day. I took a whirlwind flight to Seattle, to go to Larissa Korhun's wedding, may she be di.s mrwt r nhh!
I went to the after party , after a magnificent wedding...somewhere between the uber-planned wedding which I attended this spring and the not-so-planned wedding I attended in early July. Her Ukranian grandmother was there, who very much reminded me of what my own mother will look like in about twenty years--her hair in a bun with twinkling blue eyes.
At the party, for the second time in my life, albeit with the same bunch of people as the first time in my life, I smoked a...er...cigarette. Yeah. One with tobacco in it. ;)
I then proceeded to tell my life story to the guy next to me on the couch in Larissa's friends' hotel room where the party was being had. I have no clue what his name was, but he was a very good listener. Hopefully he was just as wasted as I was, and will never be in a position to hire or fire me. I like Mannaheim Steamroller.
I will give a review of the fantastically awesome book I've been reading, Evremonde, when I am sober. Maybe I'll even compare it with something totally unrelated...like Final Fantasy Advent Children. This seems an apt comparison in the light that both are complete fanservice. You're not going to like advent children if your idea of a good time isn't watching hot androgynous guys beat the crap out of eachother. You're not going to like Evremonde if your idea of a good time isn't seeing Lucie pay out Charles for being such an irresponsible biznatch during the French Revolution.
So I have to catch a taxi down to the airport in the next hour, and I don't know what I'm going to do until then except that I want it to involve sleeping...but I know that if I sleep I'll sleep right through this damn flight oh why did I ever do this?
That, my friends, is stream of consciousness writting.
I don't know how the hell I'm going to manage to get there, but then I barely remember how I got to the Space Needle motel from the party at Udub, so I suppose if I just go with the flow everything will work out FINE.
I have the attention-span of a goldfish right now. And I'll probably regret this all later.
FISHY! FISHY!
Oh yeah. And in order to prove I'm not drunk off my head, I'll name for you the six wives of Henry the Eighth, whom Dickens thought was a blood-soaked brute, though he was approaching Henry from a stick-up-the-arse quaint-humourish, victorian, white male who's just left his wife sort of way: Here they ARE! The SIX WIVES!
Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard, Catherine Parr!!!!
Golly, I'm glad my mum doesn't read this!