Sandwiched Last week was pretty much a sandwich for me. Prepare for a really stupid analogy; it's the one that's been sticking in my head so you're just going to have to deal. It started an ended with stale pieces of bread, but the middle was rather fantastic. Stale piece of bread #1 - I was still in my anti-women mood at the beginning of the week (see 10/1). And I really didn't want to deal with anyone of that sex. I was just being angry and bitter and downtrodden. Lovely fillings - My nemesis was in town for some work. It was lots of fun to play with her and I was thrilled to be helping her with something fun and interesting and creative. There was lots of drinking, a fantastic karaoke night (except for that 2:47AM drunk dial I don't remember making...oops), some brainstorming, lots of shooting, and a bunch of X-Men Legends. It was just a really good time of work and play. Stale piece of bread #2 - After two months of trying to get in trouble at work, it finally happened. I was waiting, almost desperately, to get called on something so I could retort with the long, long list of reasons of why I find my current situation most...unsatisfactory. Of course, I could have brought it up much earlier, but that's too direct for my tastes and I think I've read The Prince one too many times. Thankfully, that dialogue has started. Tomorrow should be interesting. In morea recent news, I spent a lot of the weekend drunk, which is probably why I couldn't come up with a better analogy. There was more karaoke (I got back at 2:00AM this time, yay!), beer, SoCo, bourbon, and soju (watermelon and lychee). My mutant power of hangover transference is in full effect since there's no way that mixing beer, SoCo, and bourbon in one evening should leave one without the slightest trace of a hangover. On Sunday morning, Carlos and I discovered an outstanding coffeehouse two blocks from our apartment. I've walked by it several times, but never thought to go in since it didn't look very interesting. I'm actually irked that I waited so long. It's expensive ($2.50 for a large cup), but it's so worth it. They brew one cup at a time using a technique that's an amalgam of French pressing and Turkish brewing. I had an amazing cup of Ethiopian Harrar. It was brilliant. I should know better than to judge something by its facade, but then again perhaps I don't. I base a lot of what I think of someone on their vibe and more often than not I can tell the good people from that bad. Yet for some reason I try (to varying degrees of success) to convince most people than I'm an ineffectual clown. I dunno. It's just a stupid thing I do.