last awake

The party has set alarm clocks and gone to bed. Scents of baked apples and creme du loge hang in the air as numb nostrils inhale. Exhale. And slowly, how! I have had amounts of brandy, undisclosed and unregretted. I have sent ALL ladies to their sheets while I reside in dark concsious rooms of couches, computers, television, and cardboard cut outs of Aragorn and that sexy elf. My hair is FoHawlked. My teeth are grim, and my guts will retract only after days' digestion rolls, buckles, and expells. Gross.

Happy Thanksgiving my friends. ST, Eddie, and Double O, I love you guys and wish you were here.

Wish you were here. Twice again.

WHAT!? What is that I hear? Ajorning this dark living room of devices to amuse I hear the brittle laughter of one on the verge of tears. Hillary is speaking to Heather. Hillary is having negative emotional reactions to a certain someone spending their Thanksgiving, many states away, at Denny's and strip clubs. Ah. Strife, how do you mock us. (That was an apostrophe.) For some reasons, her troubles bring dastardly hope to this, the last layer of my heart. Dastardly, for I have lost the illusion that what I want is controlled by me.

Madda.

Peace and Love,
Mungo