This could hurt in the morning

We had this big idea that there would be trick-or-treaters at Phil's apartment tonight, since his apartment doesn't look so much like an apartment as it does half a house, so we had dinner at the Pizza Cafe (I had two glasses of happy hour-discounted RedWood Creek Cab, yum) and then went to the liquor store for supplies to get us through the night, and then to Walgreens for little fun-size packets of the name-brand chocolate death that the kids look forward to every year.

And even after I emptied the Walgreens bag's contents into a giant glass bowl, and downed a shot of Southern Comfort (along with Phil and Jamie) and two more glasses of wine, and watched the newest enstallment installment* of the Mustache Brothers, those ungrateful little beggars still managed not to show. And I was sooo hoping to answer the door and slur something hilarious and frighten their parents. But, now there is a crystal glass* bowl of Snickers and Reese's Pieces and delicious Kraft caramels sitting on Phil's coffee table, beside the cat, untouched, waiting for the attention of pre-pubescent goblins and pirates and fairy princesses. And somehow I ended up here at my apartment with my clothes mostly strewn all over the living room, petting Gonzo, gulping down water in between sips of a deliciously cheap Barefoot Cab, thinking about Savannah and Murfreesboro and places where familiarity is being lived comfortably without me, and wondering, for the millionth time today and yesterday and this week and tomorrow, what the fuck I am doing and why, and with whom, and when I will get those minor details figured out.

So, Vacation Day No. 3 can be considered a rousing success. The morning of Vacation Day No. 4, however, could prove to be tougher than I had anticipated.

* Indicates correction made to drunken prose.