I have the best boyfriend in the world, perhaps the best boyfriend in the long and storied history of boyfriends. If my boyfriend were a car, he would start reliably, get 300 miles to the gallon, and vacuum his own floor mats.
Why, you ask, am I waxing so fond of the boy?
Because he took me out and he got me really drunk.
After days of feeling ineffectual and useless at work and random other bummers that made me want nothing so much as to take to my bed, Jason decided that he was taking me out for drinks. Nothing fancy, just he and I and our friends in a bar.
It was glorious. Hours of gin and tonic and conversation about things that had nothing, NOTHING to do with Corporate Happy Fun Job: writing, art, the dispensing of romantic advice. For the first time in days I feel as though the wrinkles in my cortex are not filled with dryer lint. I enjoyed people! Wit! There was actual laughter, instead of wizened and bitter chuckles.
Plus, if last night’s company and cocktails wasn’t enough, as an added bonus today I just. Don’t. Care. I am exploring new and unplumbed depths of professional indifference. Right now, this instant, I truly believe that I’m earning every penny of my paltry fucking salary by holding my chair in place. My god. This is absolutely brilliant.
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