partying like it's 2001
Dec. 3rd, 2011 10:18 pmYesterday I had a horrible morning (well, it involved being hauled into my supervisor's office to discuss the week's major fuck-up, let's put it like that) and a lot less horrible afternoon, and then I was just leaving work and realising I'd left my phone somewhere. So I turned around, went back up the stairs to my windowless third-floor office and my office phone. One of the associates, who is foul-mouthed and constantly exasperated and shouty and very, very kind, and was in his office drowning in papers because of a deed he'd said he'd do for my terrifying supervisor, said: "I swear to God I saw you turn off your computer and leave the building. For fuck's sake, do that."
I promised him I would. And when I finally did, I had a really nice evening:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gavagai came to see me, and we sat in a pub and had dinner and drank mulled cider (lovely, hot, warming, doesn't taste remotely alcoholic) and then pink cocktails (Me: "So, there's this one that's basically sauvignon blanc dyed pink with raspberry Chambord." / Laura: "So, all of your favourite things?") and I don't remember an awful lot about what we talked about, but when we first went in the two people sitting at the table next to us were, from the content of their conversation, mildly-riled-up academic theologians. So they sat there and talked theology, and in the meantime in came this gang of guys who clearly had set the theme of the evening to be "wear your ugliest, most fabulous Christmas jumper". Our favourite was the jumper with the 3D snowflakes on the shoulder, and snowman with a pointy-carrot nose. And after a while I said, "I didn't think the Christmas-jumper guys knew the theologian-guys" - and it turned out they didn't. They merely wanted to drape themselves over total strangers and talk about Jesus.
Laura and I retreated into another corner of the pub, drank more cocktails and had the sort of conversation that starts with Serious Thoughts About Deep Space Nine and ends with you just saying, "Garak!" with jazz hands and laughing a lot. It was very lovely. And then I was too drunk, really, to cycle home, and piled self into taxi, and the driver volunteered to carry my bike as well as me, and I seem to remember advising him on how to amend his will. Ye gods. When I got home, Shim was grateful I had not been squished by a bus, seeing as my phone had been dutifully taking his messages on the bedside table where I left it.
The flaw in the plan, though. The flaw in the plan is that I am viciously sad. It's the job, of course. Three months in have already taken an eternity; and another eternity is not an alluring prospect. So I am trying to see as much daylight as possible, and drinking too much and feeling sad, that kind of sad that is not vaguely melancholic and romantic but just rubbish.
Nothing to be done about it, though. When is there ever.
There is an age meme, percolating.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
highfantastical gave me an age.
( nostalgia )
Now, it is 11pm on a Saturday and I am sitting on my lurid green couch under my lurid orange throw from Ikea. Fourteen-year-old me, you never knew life could get this cool, admit it.
I promised him I would. And when I finally did, I had a really nice evening:
gavagai came to see me, and we sat in a pub and had dinner and drank mulled cider (lovely, hot, warming, doesn't taste remotely alcoholic) and then pink cocktails (Me: "So, there's this one that's basically sauvignon blanc dyed pink with raspberry Chambord." / Laura: "So, all of your favourite things?") and I don't remember an awful lot about what we talked about, but when we first went in the two people sitting at the table next to us were, from the content of their conversation, mildly-riled-up academic theologians. So they sat there and talked theology, and in the meantime in came this gang of guys who clearly had set the theme of the evening to be "wear your ugliest, most fabulous Christmas jumper". Our favourite was the jumper with the 3D snowflakes on the shoulder, and snowman with a pointy-carrot nose. And after a while I said, "I didn't think the Christmas-jumper guys knew the theologian-guys" - and it turned out they didn't. They merely wanted to drape themselves over total strangers and talk about Jesus. Laura and I retreated into another corner of the pub, drank more cocktails and had the sort of conversation that starts with Serious Thoughts About Deep Space Nine and ends with you just saying, "Garak!" with jazz hands and laughing a lot. It was very lovely. And then I was too drunk, really, to cycle home, and piled self into taxi, and the driver volunteered to carry my bike as well as me, and I seem to remember advising him on how to amend his will. Ye gods. When I got home, Shim was grateful I had not been squished by a bus, seeing as my phone had been dutifully taking his messages on the bedside table where I left it.
The flaw in the plan, though. The flaw in the plan is that I am viciously sad. It's the job, of course. Three months in have already taken an eternity; and another eternity is not an alluring prospect. So I am trying to see as much daylight as possible, and drinking too much and feeling sad, that kind of sad that is not vaguely melancholic and romantic but just rubbish.
Nothing to be done about it, though. When is there ever.
There is an age meme, percolating.
highfantastical gave me an age.( nostalgia )
Now, it is 11pm on a Saturday and I am sitting on my lurid green couch under my lurid orange throw from Ikea. Fourteen-year-old me, you never knew life could get this cool, admit it.
