Life's just dandy. Peachy, even. LA was a hysterical whirlwind, and I was half slapping myself on the wrist for blowing money on a trendy, overpriced hotel room, but then, lo and behold, my grandfather's birthday/Christmas check (i.e., the annual event of me remembering that my father's father is still alive) arrived and it's like the whole weekend never happened, financially-speaking.
Last night, I went over to Suzanne's house to play Rock Band with Samantha. I also made a Guinness chocolate cake, because I'm fantastic. I've started working out again (I made it four days on the fast, which was more than enough). I've been smoking way, way, way too much pot, but I've also started hanging out with hippies, so by that comparison, I'm sober as a fox even when I'm trashed. It's fun, walking down the street with girls with long, uncombed hair, and boys with no shoes on, and me in my $300 heels and mod dress. I mean, just because I currently find that particular subculture to be soothing and joy-inducing right now doesn't mean I can't look like a crisp $500 bill, amirite?
Still trying trying trying to finish that fucking story. It's awful. I mean, it's really bad. I'm scared to reread it, because some of it's so fantastic, but it's hard to revisit that when it's been so long...and I still think about it every day.