In which the dork-o-thon continues, in all its kick-ass glory.

We have this habit of parking on this particular overlook out on a gravel road somewhere and having Deep Conversations. Like, ass-kickingly, blown, insane, emotional, silly, soul-baringly deep Deep Conversations.

I’ve got it so bad, bitches.

Yesterday I spoke with three stone-cold argumentative bitches in a row and got a little aggro, so I talked K into taking me to Oregon after work so we could drink and smoke and eat fried foods all at the same time. Someone won at Keno and bought us a final round we really didn’t need on a school night, but eventually we got out of there and went and parked in what has become our freak-out spot.

Once there we proceeded to do what we do, which is talk at an incredibly rapid and efficient pace about ourselves and each other and past damage and definitions of what health might be, all the while cuddling and crying and laughing and yelling and whispering and carrying on, and even occasionally peeing next to the car in the dark.

I’ve got it so bad, bitches.

I was in bed by half past midnight. I slept like a rock. This morning I didn’t get out of bed until twenty-two past, but somehow managed to shower and dress and walk to work with two minutes to spare.

Right now I’m eating nuked Michelina’s fettuccini alfredo at my desk, listening to K miraculously keep his cool in the 112th minute of the WORLD’S LONGEST DIAL-UP SETUP CALL, EVAR. (The poor fucker. I never-ever-never want to support whoever it is that he’s talking to, because not only should setup even with neophytes always take fewer than ten minutes, but because only morons think they’re gonna start a new career in day trading over a fucking dial-up connection!!!) Hopefully my phone will start ringing soon, because once I’m done eating I’ll have nothing to do if it doesn’t.