One of the major disadvantages of working the graveyard shift is that there's never anyone around to go have a drink with afterwards. Everybody I know has a regular, sunlight-filled workday and is just getting ready for work when I'm heading home from work.
Because of this, and because of tonight's writeup (which is fiction, but made me cry, nonetheless), I'm going home and getting drunk alone. (Although if any of you local noders would like to join me, you're all more than welcome. If you're awake.)
If I'm successful in drinking enough Smirnoff Ice to put me to sleep, then I'll do just that; go to sleep. If not, I'll do what I should've done yesterday, which is to call the Louisiana Clinic and schedule a CAT scan.
I'm curiously afraid of the CAT scan, but since there's a newfound cyst on the back of my head I guess it's probably best that I get one, just in case I have brain cancer or something. After that, if I'm still feeling in a talkative sort of mood, I'll call my mother up in Nashville, and give her yet another tear in the stomach ulcer. I would hate to be my parents. Every few months I come up with something completely by accident that worries the hell out of them. I guess, then, it's a good thing I've already chemically castrated myself, lest I have children of my own someday.
A good friend of mine and somewhat of an old flame all rolled into one, Annalisa, is coming to New Orleans next week for a visit. We're going to see the Cranes on Wednesday and will be spending the remainder of next week doing whatever fun things catch our collective fancy. It just so happens that I'm on vacation from work next week, so if anybody fancies dinner at a restaurant next week (except Wednesday), let me know.