Remind me to show up next Saturday morning for 9ish. And I'm not getting paid.
And the week after, and the week after that.
And to call the opera people about stage managers.
Ain't no party like a high school party 'cause a high school party ends just after midnight with everyone really drunk and moping.
Downhill from two o'clock. The CD player, the "ME FUCK?", the headlight I smashed, the weather, the disappointment in his voice, the weather, the lack of control, the final score (27-16), the inebriabted desperation, the pornography, the ABS on that fucking car, the weather.
I'm not in Toronto this weekend after all.