Aaaaaaand I’m drunk. Well, tipsy. Four glasses of red wine, no dinner, and about nine tiny curried shortbreads later. Now I remember why hanging out with Livy can be so rockin’ — fresh baked, hot-out-tha-oven curried shortbread is nothing to sneeze at. It’s something to cram into your mouth until there’s no room for air, and then beg for a ziplock baggie full to “take home to your roommate”.

Liv’s boyfriend was in fine form tonight. He got a couple of G&Ts in him and started scraping the living daylights out of the bathroom wall, trying to remove the paper beneath the paint. After a few liberal-handed gouges that bit beneath the drywall surface, he decided PolyFilla and sanding were the solution, and started in with majorly loud major home renovations. At one thirty in the morning. It was pretty funny, actually, but that’s probably the wine talking.

Why do I do this to myself? It’s two bloody thirty in the morning, and I have to be at the Comicon first thing tomorrow. Perhaps it’s freakish wiccan karma; was I Rip Van Winkle in a previous life, and am now paying threefold by never seeing more than 5 hours sleep a night for my entire mid-twenties? Blast it, I know I just need to conk out at 10pm, but it seems like such a waste of a perfectly good evening to do so.

Enough. I sleep now. Better not be hungover in the mornizzZzzZZZz…