Some Pork & Egg Buns, a Sleepover, New York Weekends

Well, there went the weekend.

There was dancing; there was drinking; there was the requisite drunk-dialing, just to keep me honest. (Why, oh, why do the gods shame us so? Why, oh, why do I push off my [warranted] self-guilt onto some elusive "gods"?? One will never know.)

It all culminated in a sleepover, chez Grice.

"Do you remember this morning when you nuzzled into my ... my ... bosom?" she asked. The answer was: no, it must've been a subconscious, warm-body reflex.

Thankfully, Lady holds on her shoulders one of the few heads upon which I foist my love troubles, so she didn't take my nuzzling as some latent flirtation. Ha.

Note: Dear lord, please feed this attention-seeking, self-loathing monster...something, soon.

After lolling about in bed, lamenting life, exchanging stories, et cetera, we decided breakfast was needed. Fried pork-egg buns -- again ... while the wallet's getting thinner, the waistline's thickening, readily.

To top it off, we then trudged/hobbled to coffee; I had my little cup in my little (err, huge) frozen fingers, and I stood looking for the cream. Skim (never). 1% (nope). 2% (closer).

This woman came up to me, having spotted my scouring eyes, and handed me the half-and-half.

When I pinch my protruding little belly, I've no one to blame but myself.

So onwards to the movie reference.

I walked my lovely lady friend to her subway destination some many blocks away from my warm home. I realized, while doing so, that I own neither a scarf nor gloves. That long walk home reminded me of only one scene (lies) ... the scene in "The Shining" when Jack is chasing Danny in the maze. You need only watch the first couple seconds to understand the feeling.

Fleeting Faith in Humanity, Idiot Chihuahua and The Shining

A part of me died today.

It happens pretty often, as I tend to walk around with an annoying woe-is-me, weight-of-the-world mentality, (something I should work on).

But this is really, really bad.

I was skimming my Google Movie blogs, searching for a Slice of news to offer about the upcoming Martin Scorsese and Robert DeNiro collaboration (!!) when I was slapped in the face with the horrifying news that "Beverly Hills Chihuahua" was NUMBER ONE at the box office this weekend. $29 million worth of worthless tickets were sold.



I just ... I just ... I'm speechless. As if I weren't already scared enough for the U.S., now my fleeting faith in humanity has me feeling like Wendy hiding in the bathroom as Jack comes after her with the axe. (In "The Shining.") If I don't read good things about the Scorsese/Deniro movie, I may be too depressed to move.