January 30, 1999.

I'm hella-tired right now. The Boy was out hella-late last night carousing with my friends, and he had to get up hella-early this morning to go home. I figured that since I was hella-awake anyway, I might as well stay up. That was five hours ago. I'm beginning to hella-regret the decision.

"Dude! Stop goddamn saying 'hella!'"
"You guys are just hella-jealous."

- the evil cartman episode of southpark

Indeed.

Very laid back Friday. Was supposed to go dancing with Scherezade, but she bailed at the last minute. It's just as well; I was feeling all hormonal and achey. As I've mentioned, the Boy was off carousing with my male University friends in honour of Agamemnon's ordination tomorrow. One of the upshots is that now he understands all the outrageous stories I tell about Beowulf. Beowulf's the guy who ran downtown from North York all done up on smack, arriving at Saint Stephen's house with part of a tombstone and a bucket of fried rice. He's the guy who once got buck naked and chased Agamemnon around, screaming "I'm gonna sodomize ya!" He's the one who's a practicing intern at Mount Sinai, the one who'll be a doctor in a couple of years. He's an unpredictable x-factor in any night, and I always feel like he'll finish up one party by digging a shallow midnight grave.

Anyway. The Boy had a really good time, which cheers me...except for the fact that he wants to spend more time with Paris. D'oh! That's what I said two years ago, and look where it got me...

(Actually, I like here quite a bit, but I wouldn't go through that year again for a million monkeys. And I certainly don't want to do it from the other side of the rhumba, so to speak).

So instead of dancing or drinking or carousing, I invited myself over to Stacy & Scott's. I know from repeated queries that Scott invariably spends Friday night falling asleep in front of the teevee, and that sounded mighty good to me. My only concern was that they'd be too high-brow to let me watch Southpark, but I needn't've worried: Scott claims to have laughed to the point of vomiting during Baseketball. Which is prolly more than you wanted to know. But then, I haven't told you what dastardly movies they actually own, now have I?

Oh, the secrets! Oh the potential humiliation! (well, not really) bwwwwwaaa ha ha ha !

ha.