I'm gonna throw the fuck up.

I am so thoroughly unimpressed with my behavior not only last night, but all of yesterday. If I were my friend I'd stage an intervention.. that's not a suggestion, by the way.

I let myself get seduced by the idea that our profit-sharing checks that we were to receive today would be some sort of astronomical fortune, so I spent probably $250, all told, yesterday, on clothing and spirits, effectively allowing my funds to drop dangerously low, into the teeth-gnashing zone.

Yeah, it was slightly less than seventy bucks. So because I'm a glutton for punishment, with mounting horror, I decided it'd be an opportune time to look at my Cingular bill. Just shy of two hundred bucks. Yikes. You run out of rollover minutes and you're screwed, I'm discovering.

Some might freak the fuck out right now. Too late! I already did that last night when I was sobbing my drunk heart out in a recessed storefront area that homeless people probably usually occupy (and were just scared away by my antics). Why? Because my love life is a sad farce and only in complete drunkenness do I seem to grasp the grim comedy of it all.

It's real difficult right now not to whine and moan and go, "My life is in a shambles! Woe is me. Woe unto anyone who enters my sphere of desolation," especially since even Mojo is against me now, having shat (yes, shat) twice and puked once in either my bedroom or bathroom within the last 24 hours.

I'm not even hung over. But I think I'm gonna throw the fuck up.

Hell, I guess I could call somebody who cares, but I can't find my phone..