I type with the wireless running and my computer on my chest and sometimes I get the sensation that my heart is just being baked by the wireless, that small tumors are growing inside my chest and my blood is changing and I just can't help it anymore and so I turn the wireless off, but I want to look up some celebrity gossip or the name of that Buffy episode or maybe what's happening in Greece today, so I turn the internet on again, and it's all because of that itching, that itching desire to know what you do not know and once the wireless rays, those spiral black bars are off, I just want to know more, more, more and I instantly think I'm missing out when really deep down I know I'm not.

Okay. This girl had a party Saturday night and I was really looking forward to going even though she didn't invite me at first but someone else did, but then I took M out for his birthday dinner at Houston's, and even though it's a chain, he said he wanted to go there for 1) the no corkage fee and 2) when he was growing up they didn't have a lot of money but every year his dad would take him to Houston's for one fancy meal, and I like that story very much, because that shows he at least remembers something, because sometimes I think my boyfriend is a robot. I like when he gets sentimental, even though he wasn't that sentimental when he stated it, he just said it like a fact. This is how it is. So there, world. Ha.

I took him to Houston's and I had the crab cakes. They were pretty fucking great, let me tell you, and for $32 a plate they better be fucking great, too. He had the steak, which was pretty raw. It was just this bleeding meat sack, but he was loving it, and I had enough wine where I was willing to try a bite, and I did, and it was delicious (okay, fine) but it was even more so with the red wine, and we went to Lucky Baldwin's before that which may be his favorite place on earth, or at least in Pasadena, I don't know. I had this semi-girlie drink, it was a sour lambic beer. Just a tinge of sweetness, then pretty dry. Fucking good is what it was. I do like Lucky Baldwin's, but man, beer bloats me up good. Like a blowfish. Boom.

Whatever. That's a gross image, but I'm not deleting what I wrote. Ha! Not like anyone reads this, except my mom. Maybe. (Hi, Mom!) She loves me no matter what. I think. Unless I got really, really fat, then she'd probably be like, "Yeah, you let yourself go," and I'd be like, "Damn, Ma. Thanks." Then I'd go on Celebrity Fitness Club. Oh, wait. I'm not a celebrity. Then I'd just eat less and work out or something and maybe go on that cayenne pepper diet or walk out into the desert and get lost and if I didn't die, I'd probably be a little bit thinner again.

I don't know why I called Mom Ma in the above paragraph. I've never called her Ma. Ever.

And that's how we do things up in here. The Greek way! Represent! And by that I mean the really convoluted, complicated way. Yeah. Learned that from my dad.

I've waited too long and now the thought of driving home seems so daunting. Maybe I'll just melt away in my car.