Drunk, again.
12:41 a.m.
Me: Sure.
L.P.: Well, you know how I was trying to sleep on the couch?
Me: Yeah
L.P.: Well, one of the marshals said I couldn’t sleep on the couch in the bar and I said, but I’m waiting for my parents, and she asked me if I was drunk.
Me: Yeah.
L.P.: And I said, no, I'm waiting for my parents to get sober enough to drive me home.
Yes, your intrepid diarist is slightly inebriated (well, actually more than slightly, but considering I just drove home, I won’t admit it to anyone). The composers’ year-end concert was tonight, a three-hour extravaganza, complete with two intermissions, encompassing all the projects of both terms (both electronic and acoustic compositions), culminating with my husband’s band playing in the pub. I coerced (well, not really, I was wearing leather and he did it quite willingly) another middled-aged friend of mine to buy me the first beer, and then I split a pitcher with a first-year student (who reminds me uncannily of another friend of me; they even share the same first name), and I am probably over the limit when it comes to operating a motor vehicle, but no one stopped us and I was very careful.
The concert was surprisingly good. These kids are really talented. Most surprising was a reed trio by a student from a fundamentalist Christian background who has made a break with her family (they’ve more or less disowned her, in fact) in order to be able to study music and not be a slave to her mother (who is actually a medical doctor but decided to devote herself to having and raising about 13 children). It was very good. This girl has real talent.
Just prior to that, I brought home for supper the very girl who whispered to me the other day, “I read your Xanga!” Hell, I’ll feed anyone. That’s what I do. I think I’m safe here. At least, I hope I am.
And now, as my eyes are closing as I type this, and I have to keep backspacing to correct my alcohol-related typos, I’d better go to bed.
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