The Pretty Hangover
Life is good. Life is really good right now.
It's not the kind of good that makes me deliriously happy -- that kind of happy is just obscene and only comes when you're blindcrazyrecklessly in love or when you win the lottery on the same day that you find out your worst enemy died; rather, it's the kind of good that's contained in glowing bursts of yellow and orange by a small red balloon bobbing up and down on a sea of moderate contentment, coming up slowly just as it's about to touch the water.
I'm doing well at work: finally I can be my moody, eccentric self without fear of what anyone thinks. I remember over a year ago I was too shy to even record my voice mail greeting -- now I openly (but tactfully, mind you) disagree with the CEO when I think she's wrong and choose the projects I want to do.
My self-esteem is at an all-time high and not in the arrogant, self-deluded way, but in the I-really-like-being-me-and-I-CAN-do-whatever-I-put-my-mind-to way. I've worked hard on these things -- things like focusing on developing my skills in order to achieve my professional goals, and doing so with poise and integrity and the ever vomitous mantra of loving-kindness -- and I'm seeing good results in the form of praise, easier paths, peace of mind, an overall sense of well-being and, well, happiness. All this without the help of T*ny Robbins.
My personal life is good, too. I'm enjoying my man like never before, our roomy, Mr. Biscuit, is pleasant and funny, and my peeps near and far are happy and healthy.
Last night at around 10, Mr. Biscuit suggested we make an impromptu run to our favorite bar where the specials are always special and the lady servers are always up for a good flirt, a constant source of amusement for me to see my boy pals interact with these girls. We arrived, sat, ordered a round of drinks when we noticed the Karaoke was set up. It was on. We were going to tear it up.
So we tore through the books looking for the perfect song to sing: "no, not that one. It's too slow. Maybe that one. The crowd'll love it. Yeah, THAT one."
I went first and sang my usual "Me and Bobby Maghee" to the 12 or so people in the bar. Then Matt sang, then Mr. Biscuit and with that we had a mini-party fueled by beer and whiskey and uninhibited balls. If Mando were there, I would have sung "Waterloo" with him without knowing how, but dammit, it would've been good.
The highlight of the night was when Mr. Biscuit sang his versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Summer of '69" adorned with bouts of screaming (and not singing) his lyrics and kicking his leg in the air when necessary, rewarded with a complimentary shot of Rumplminze from one of the lady servers upon exiting the stage and a drink on the table, compliments of our very own lady server. Needless to say, Mr. Biscuit ended the night with a long conversation with the porcelain gods, followed by a pretty hangover today.
That brand of fun comes only once every three months or so. The way my small red balloon bobs, I wouldn't want it any other way.
It's not the kind of good that makes me deliriously happy -- that kind of happy is just obscene and only comes when you're blindcrazyrecklessly in love or when you win the lottery on the same day that you find out your worst enemy died; rather, it's the kind of good that's contained in glowing bursts of yellow and orange by a small red balloon bobbing up and down on a sea of moderate contentment, coming up slowly just as it's about to touch the water.
I'm doing well at work: finally I can be my moody, eccentric self without fear of what anyone thinks. I remember over a year ago I was too shy to even record my voice mail greeting -- now I openly (but tactfully, mind you) disagree with the CEO when I think she's wrong and choose the projects I want to do.
My self-esteem is at an all-time high and not in the arrogant, self-deluded way, but in the I-really-like-being-me-and-I-CAN-do-whatever-I-put-my-mind-to way. I've worked hard on these things -- things like focusing on developing my skills in order to achieve my professional goals, and doing so with poise and integrity and the ever vomitous mantra of loving-kindness -- and I'm seeing good results in the form of praise, easier paths, peace of mind, an overall sense of well-being and, well, happiness. All this without the help of T*ny Robbins.
My personal life is good, too. I'm enjoying my man like never before, our roomy, Mr. Biscuit, is pleasant and funny, and my peeps near and far are happy and healthy.
***************************************************************
Last night at around 10, Mr. Biscuit suggested we make an impromptu run to our favorite bar where the specials are always special and the lady servers are always up for a good flirt, a constant source of amusement for me to see my boy pals interact with these girls. We arrived, sat, ordered a round of drinks when we noticed the Karaoke was set up. It was on. We were going to tear it up.
So we tore through the books looking for the perfect song to sing: "no, not that one. It's too slow. Maybe that one. The crowd'll love it. Yeah, THAT one."
I went first and sang my usual "Me and Bobby Maghee" to the 12 or so people in the bar. Then Matt sang, then Mr. Biscuit and with that we had a mini-party fueled by beer and whiskey and uninhibited balls. If Mando were there, I would have sung "Waterloo" with him without knowing how, but dammit, it would've been good.
The highlight of the night was when Mr. Biscuit sang his versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Summer of '69" adorned with bouts of screaming (and not singing) his lyrics and kicking his leg in the air when necessary, rewarded with a complimentary shot of Rumplminze from one of the lady servers upon exiting the stage and a drink on the table, compliments of our very own lady server. Needless to say, Mr. Biscuit ended the night with a long conversation with the porcelain gods, followed by a pretty hangover today.
That brand of fun comes only once every three months or so. The way my small red balloon bobs, I wouldn't want it any other way.
posted by deconstructionist at 9:51 PM
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