Less than a half-hour ago, I walked in the door wanting to collapse into a pile of pillows (ecstatic that I remembered to clean my room before leaving for the weekend) and found that all the paintings from one wall in the living room had been moved onto my bed earlier this morning as part of a painting venture of my mother's. Once those had been cleared out, I rested a weary body finally and began what will hopefully be a full recovery from the events of yesterday before five o' clock tomorrow when I have to go back to work.
The weekend involved the usual debauchery: I spent a little over twenty-four hours in a tiny studio in Westwood, Los Angeles, with two old friends and a couple new ones. We made a pilgrimage to Amoeba to fatten up Tony's emerging vinyl collection (a new obsession after the purchase of a turntable on Ebay) and between the four of us left with probably at least fifty dollars worth of dollar-bin records. With a constant supply of coffee and tea at the ready, we played a continuous stream of increasingly ridiculous music while smoking half an eighth of weed, drinking wine, and attempting a card game or two. After a two a.m. walk to the grocery store for snacks, we finally passed out in various positions around the room with haze around our brains and woke up in about the same state of mind.
This morning, I drank three cups of coffee before we left the apartment at twelve-thirty to get breakfast and had four more cups with my brioche. By the time we were halfway through Garden State at three, I was crashing heavily. Brendan and I grabbed In 'N' Out on the way back home, both of us dying for showers and our beds during the entire two hours of the drive.
Actually being home, however, has me anxious and I mostly just want my brother to call and invite me over to watch the Oscars on their DVR.
