But such is the beauty of The Collective: when I fail, another is there to take my place. BEHOLD! The email I received Sunday night (in its entirety I should add):
I'm drunk, which is always a preferred state of mind, 'specially given how easily the beverages'll go, and between rum and coffee liqueur and some belgian dubbel and whatever the hell else... i think we're making a fire next, is what i mean to say.How does it end? WE WILL NEVER KNOW. But I'm not a writer of Lost, so I will attempt to answer these questions(?) to my fullest, most soberest capacity.
anyways, questions on this delightful drunkens unday: how do you handle working inside all the time? honestly, so many aspects of your job (minus the stress and pressure and shit) seem awesoe... but the indoors. and what does it say that i like teh vast majority of teh music you recommend, but cannot bring myself to listen to ryan adams? also, when teh fuck are we getting drunk together? 'cuz i'm pretty sure by now i owe you several rounds.
ay to being
unrelated, i think you're pretty kickass. so, um, thanks for being kickass.
ps whiskey is far superior to vodka. rum may or may not be. tequila is just fucked up, as am i well on my w
I do not work inside all the time! I mean, I guess technically I do, but in exchange for not making the kind of bank a typical lawyer would make in a big-time made-for-tee-vee law firm, I get to work at home two days per week. And have you seen my home office? No? Well then you'll have to trust me when I say that I might as well be working outdoors. My home office rules. Also I can wear my jammies, so it's better than being outside, especially when it's stormy or hot or humid or generally disgusting out there.
The rest of my job is generally stressful and pressure-filled and shitty, especially these days as you can imagine. I spent yesterday editing press releases that tried real hard to be convincing about the whole we-didn't-drop-the-ball thing since a newly retired co-worker decided to throw the rest of us under the bus in Newsweek. When in point and fact it was actually all her fault. So yeah, stress.
Now. Ryan Adams. I have a confession to make, and that is that I didn't much like Jacksonville City Nights, and I haven't bought a Ryan Adams album since. HOWEVER, I will send you (any of you) an album or two, or even just a couple of songs, that I promise you'll like. And then love. And then obsess over unhealthily until you find yourself curled up in the corner of your bathroom cradling a jug of red wine to your bosom, crying as much as you did when Juliet and Sawyer reunited over that goddamned Apollo bar. I've got you.
And we are drinking together (and hopefully not crying about it) whenever you (any of you) come to visit. DC rules; don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I can't promise to be kickass when you get here (I'm usually not; Sir, consider this a warning), but I will try my hardest.
I love whiskey. But I cannot drink whiskey all night without worrying about plaque buildup on my teeth (don't ask). A nice vodka soda is always refreshing. Rum is good, but it's a summer liquor. Tequila is indeed fucked up, though I have some chicken marinating in it as we quote-unquote speak. So there you go. [Insert random letter here.]