I've been deluged with e-mails today, asking breathlessly "What does the Post-Pessimist Association think about Bush's speech? How about Rick DiPietro's contract? Is Tony Judt's "Postwar" still awesome? Are you ok about František Kaberle?"
Unfortunately, I've been ignoring everything, because something I did on this fine weekend completely ruined my back. When I woke up Monday after hazy festivities at Decatur's fine Brick Store Pub, it was a little sore; when I woke up this morning, it was incapacitating. A one-block walk left me wanting to throw up. After hours of applying heat, and taking ibuprofen, it's bearable, but my Adonis-like man-beauty is still hampered by my perpetual scowl, hunched posture and repeated involuntary use of the word "fuck."
Does everyone feel enough pity now? Send money.
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My most recent dating spree seems to have come to an end through passive-aggressiveness; neither of us have formally broken things off, but we've just sort of eased into never seeing each other at all. That means it's back into the fray.
I'm hampered a bit by a combination of factors: I spend a ton of time in bars, but I'm not great at the bar scene. That's not a winning combo. I'm relatively quiet when sober, and since I normally don't like being bothered by uninvited guests when I'm out, I tend to bestow the same courtesy on others. Then once I'm drinking, there's only a very brief window before I start talking to the girls about the Hamas government or how Marty Straka's doing this year. It's a difficult situation.
Last night, luckily, it was academic, as Atlanta's pubs were completely clear of girls. They were all off watching Bush's speech or something.