I just spent a good 10 minutes cleaning up about a whole cup of sugar from the counter tops and floor of my kitchen. You might think I'd be annoyed by the necessity, given the Fantastik-sugar slurry that is embedded in my fingernails, or the history of ants I've had in this apartment, but you'd be wrong. I was chuckling heartily the entire time.

I chuckled because the sugary dusting reminded me of yet another good time from the other drunken night with Thommi and Brett Sabulous. It was around 3am ... or maybe 6am, who remembers ... and I decided I was hungry. Since I've been out of town for a week my fridge is understandably barren. Sidenote: Why is refrigerator abbreviated fridge? Where the fuck did the 'D' come from? I guess because frige might be pronounced [frig*gy]? Where was I? Oh yeah -- empty friggy.

So I channeled the spirits of Contessa With Her Shoes Off and set about making a fabulous dinner party. If I learned one thing in my stint as an aspiring cook, it's that anything can be fried in butter ... and everything is better fried in butter. So I took a tortilla and a frying pan and set to work. The first one was pretty good and after sharing my concoction with my guests, there were three chefs in the kitchen. Three chefs with ideas for improvements. We set about to spicing things up.

The first thing we found in the ol' spice cabinet (I call it that because it's the only cabinet that has more than zero spices in it ... and less than three) was garlic salt. A few massive crispy garlic salt chips later and we were back in the ol' spice cabinet looking for round two -- not to mention downing beers to rehydrate our tongues. Sugar! Fuck yeah! Sugar would be fantastic. So Brett made a few sugar tortillas. Not bad ... but lacking. I kicked it up a notch by making a bowl of cimanimanon sugar. As I fried my butter tortilla, I hit it with pinches of cimanimanon sugar. It was alright, but not really flavorful enough.

Brett informed me that the traditional way to sugar pastries is with a sifter ... which I just happened to have. He said three sifts of sugar should be perfect. So I got my sifter out, Brett held it above the tortilla, and I poured the bowl of sugar into it. It turns out that sifters really only work with confectioners sugar, not so much with cane. It all fell immediately thru and piled on top of our dessert. Unphased, we both said, "Ooooonnnnneeee!" Two empty sifts later and we had the best fucking drunken breakfast ever dreamed up.

So anyway, that's why I cleaned up all night. I guess I could have just said, "We fried tortillas in butter and put sugar on them," but I think the long version was much, much better. See you skillets on the flip siiiiiiide.

I think one of the easiest and most efficient methods I have for determining who my friends will be resides in the bathroom. If I meet someone new and go to use their bathroom and there is an empty beer can or bottle in the bathroom trashcan, it's a pretty sure bet that we're gonna get along finejustfine. I woke up this morning to find this Kerrs Lat can in my bathroom trashcan and it gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling because I wanted to be friends with myself. Even though, I have my suspicions that my most sabulous friend put it there instead of me. But still.

Last night I was layin around drinkin beer after a hard day at work. I had a case of Kerrs Lat and the History Channel and couldn't have been happier. Then I got a text message from my new friend who works at a bar near me. I'm avoiding names to protect the guilty. Only because I'm dying to tell you that I went to go keep him company while business was slow and started drinking. Brett Sabulous texted me shortly thereafter saying he was bored so he joined me. We sat and drank for a few hours, probably had a tab of around 70 dollars, and walked out without paying a dime. So fucking awesome. But I also didn't tip so I told my friend I'd buy him dinner next time he was around and hungry. Gotta love friends behind bars.

I was really drinking so much in an effort to produce a really raging headache so I could spend all day in bed in my newly darkened bedroom. It worked. And now, ladies and gentlement, I present to you, a new picture of my bedroom -- at 3 o'fuckin'clock in the damn afternoon. It is so awesome. Not exactly black, but close enough. It has been so nice -- dark and cool. I have my suspicions that this is going to save me a hell of a lot on air conditioning bills. But seriously, folks, I have a splitting headache. I gotta go back into my cave.

So Thursday was my birthday. I was pretty vigilant with my vow after last year's debacle to not make a big deal about it. Thanks to everyone who remembered and sent me a message or called. I worked on my birthday but took this Friday off because I was pretty sure I was gonna be drunk.

I decided that all I really wanted to do was sit on the TV and watch some beers. So when I got home from work, I tidied up a bit, cooked a frozen pizza and got down to drinking. Brett Sabulous had kept his plans tentative just in case I was doing something, and decided to come join me in my quest. So we sat on the TV together and watched a lot of beers. When Daniel got home, we moved the party down there and continued drinking. It was so much fun. So low key. So much more my speed.

Daniel got me a really nice Bulova wall clock for over my TV. That brings my clock total to 6 now. That's almost one clock per 100 square feet of my apartment. I am obsessed with knowing what time it is. This is the only nice clock I have though. It looks pretty smart over my new TV stand. I need to hang it just a smidge higher but I couldn't reach, so it's temporary now. Brett got me a gift certificate to Face, this men's salon in uptown. I'd never heard of it but their menu was quite impressive. I'm going to go get a real shave. I have ALWAYS wanted to do that. Hot towels, hot lathers, straight bladed razors. Omg, I can't wait. My parents got me a month of yoga. I really want to try out this place called Dahn Yoga over on Beltline. I don't know what brain respiration is but I'm soon going to find out.

So everything went just swimmingly this year. Unfortunately, speaking of swimmingly, Tuna is in bad shape. He's been really lethargic lately, so this morning I got online and researched his condition. He is showing every symptom of disease. I am going to get a heater for his tank since the temperature should be between 74 and 78 degress Fahrenheit, and if you've ever been to my refrigerated apartment, you know it's always colder than that. I'm about to quarantine him, clean his tank, and see if we can't revive him. But he's 2 years and 3 months old now, so I'm not sure how much longer he'll be with us. I'll keep you updated on his condition. Remember him in your prayers to Chuck Norris. Peace out, have-nots.

Our Kaboomtown party was such a hit! You'll see why I say that shortly.

First off, Kaboomcrown'ncokes are so delicious. I was able to convince most of the guests to scream "KABOOM!" when they ladled an ice cream scoop full of cherries into their drinks. That bottle of Crown lasted all of like 30 minutes. We switched to Grizzy Gooses (I wondered if the plural was Grizzy Geese, but it's not) soon after. When the Grey Goose was gone, we switched to Grabsoluts. That makes no sense since the "Gr" came from "Grey" but oh well. Absolizzy sounds stupid. The champagne flowed and the beer went way faster than expected. Smart move on my part getting plastic bottles. You'll see why I say that shortly.

When it got dark we all went to the roof of the garage. It was solid people. Solid drunk people. It was pouring rain. All the drunk people were dancing and hootin' 'n hollerin' in the rain. Yours truly included. Someone had a watermelon full of liquor that they were dispensing shots from. When that ran out, they filled it up with whatever beer was available. Too much fun. Brett Sabulous and I screamed, "KABOOM!" at the fireworks repeatedly. Repeatedly. Since it was pouring rain, they only shot off about a third of the planned fireworks, I'm estimating. There was no grand finale like I'm sure they had planned. I felt bad for the people that had probably planned the whole thing, it was basically ruined, but still totally rad. I love fireworks because when I was little my parents used to tell me that they were for my birthday.

After much merry making on the roof, we went back downstairs. I was pretty drunk and happy so some of the details escape me, but things got ugly. You'll see why I say that now. Without using any names or daring to understand the provocation, several fights broke out. Not like fun friendly fights. Like mean trying-to-hurt-each-other fights. I think back to like when Todd and DAvid would fight and I'd sit back and laaaauuuugh. Because even though they were throwing real punches and causing real bruises, you just knew that deep down inside they weren't going to hurt each other. It's like watching brothers fight. Not so that night. They were out for blood. And your local good Samaritan, Sidesho, was trying to stop it. Several mislanded punches later, several concrete tackles later, several wrestling matches and alpha male chest thrusts later, it was finally disolved, but not before our party was basically ruined. I was left with a few minor scraps and scabs, bruises all over both arms from someone fighting to escape my grip, a severely fucked up shoulder, two knees that don't take much to fuck up -- but falling on them on concrete did the trick -- a new trick ankle, and a sore nose. Good times, good times.

I was pretty upset at the time. By "upset" I mean "really drunk and upset" which always makes things worse. I took quite a bit of consoling, not because I was hurt, but because I had to watch people I cared about trying to draw blood from each other. I'm a delicate boy, I can't handle that shit. But now that's it been a couple of days, looking back it was rather exhilarating. I've never even been near a fight, and frankly have always been terrified of the proposition, but now I don't think it would be that bad. I mean, no one was fighting me, I was just in the way, but still, it doesn't hurt THAT bad to get hit. So watch the fuck out, everyone, this is your warning. I'm looking for a reason now. I WISH some mother fucker be sittin in my seat.

So that was my Kaboomtown. The 4th was much more serene consisting of dinner at Daniel's parents' house and a drive home where we could see at least 3 fireworks shows going on at all times. This is so my favorite holiday. It's really cool too because it celebrates our country's independence; it's not just some Hallmark-invented holiday like Valentine's Day or easter. So hope everyone else had a wonderful (and tad safer) holiday. Czech you skillets on the flip side.

Our dear friend Kelly has canceled her Addison! Circle lease. In the wake of it, she told me I could have whatever I wanted out of her apartment to save her the trouble of moving out. So the other night a bunch of us let ourselves in and went on a treasure hunt.

It occured to me in there what a peculiar word "dibs" is. You know how if you take any word and say it outloud enough times it starts sounding stupid? Another good example is merge. Merge... merge... merge? Sounds wrong, don't it? After a good 30 minutes of walking around yelling, "DIBS! DIBS ON THE COUCH! DIBS ON THE MIRROR!" I couldn't let it go. I came home and googled the origins of dibs. The long of the short of it is, no one knows where it came from. People speculate it may have something to do with the ancient game of dibstone originally played with the knucklebones of sheep, but the evolution from that to laying an unbreakable claim on someone's trash can is beyond me. It's just one of those unsolved mysteries. Duh nuh nuh nuhnuh duh nuhnuh nuhnuh.

I am the proud owner of a new couch, a new tv stand, a couple new lamps, a new standing mirror, and some new DVDs. My apartment is a tad overcrowded at the moment, reminiscent of the summer I spent in my duplex on Medina. Medina RULES! Thank you to my most sabulous friend, Brett, who helped me move all the shit across the street. It was quite an ordeal. Well, not really, I'm just being dramatic. We will all miss having sober Kelly as our neighbor, but she'll live on in all the free shit I ganked from her with the spare key.

Dibs on the martini shaker!

My blog affects my life immensely. It can manifest in two ways. Either I alter my usual patterns hoping to generate a blog-worthy story, or the things that I've said on my website are read by people who then affect my life. That's why I do shit like ear candling and enrolling in the art institute. The other night, I ran into Ryan Short and he started hitting me because I said he always disagrees with me. Those are just a few examples of a constant whirlwind. SideshoViD.com is never far from my mind.

I tell you this, because I don't want you to think I've left you hanging. 90% of the day, I am writing blogs in my head. And I've written this one again, and again, and again, and again. If I write something happy-go-lucky, it will appear to others that I am flighty and disengaged. If I write something too honest, I'll betray my own self, and won't stand to entertain any of you, which is always one of my goals. I don't know what I'm really trying to say, just basically informing you that I'm going to just try to pick and choose humorous anecdotes from my day and highlight those, but I am, in no way, belittling anything that has happened recently.

I got a new noise machine for my bedroom -- The Sound Soother 50. It was really expensive, but it came with a remote control, I can plug my iPod into it and use it as a speaker, and the sounds are incredibly real. I've been sleeping with "downpour" a lot and I like to nap with "bamboo chimes." Another favorite of mine is "clothes dyer." There are a few questionable ones like "pasture" and "buggy ride," like who the fuck wants to fall asleep to cows mooing. You'd have to be a country-ass bumpkin. "Heartbeat" is also kinda creepy, but I think that's supposed to be good for babies. I just had to get some sort of background noise to block out anything ambient. My brain has started taking sounds it hears while I'm sleeping, creating a terrifying story to explain the sound, and overlaying it on top of my actual sights and sounds as I sleepwalk. Technically, they're not nightmares, since nightmares are types of dreams, dreams only occur during REM, and my brain does not go into REM. Their official name is night terrors. Hahaha. Fucking great.

I've stopped taking Provigil. While the doctor said that it had nothing to do with my heart rate, I found myself with a resting heart rate of 145bpm. Just to put that in perspective, it should be less than 80bpm ... the only reason your heart should beat 145 times per minute is if you have just sprinted a 5k. That was a concern for me so I stopped the Provigil. It's been hard, but I'm feuling my body now with complex carbohydrates and natural fructose to offset the ill effects of ideopathic hypersomnia (aka excessive sleepiness, but ideopathic hypersomnia sounds more medical). A high resting heart rate is known as tachycardia. Fuck me sideways, I knew I was broken-hearted, but I didn't know I had a broken heart.

I'm looking forward to several appointments with doctors in the following weeks. I'm probably going to be having lots of surgeries and procedures to aid me in my breathing, and then we can shift focus to addressing these K-alpha complex waves my brain produces for no reason. Yippee.

I hung out last night with my most sabulous friend, Brett. We had a lot of fun. He said his father still reads my website. He was concerned about me and had wanted to put a comment on my comment-less post a couple back. He also said he had left me a comment once but wouldn't ever tell Brett which one. It took me all of half a second to say, "I bet he was the one who left me that 'Stone Age to the Space Age and still no follow up on what bar was first' comment after Febrehabruarii." He just spoke with him and sure enough, I was right. I know my website way too well. Like I said, I am both it's unforgiving master, and it's unwitting slave.

Next week I am meeting three days with my new personal trainer. We've set up a program for me that should have me around 15% body fat before summer. I'm refocusing my negative, self-destructive energy as of late into a rather obsessive dedication to self-improvement. I've already lost 12 pounds, but that was mostly from an unintentional anorexia, but I was pleased that I didn't rebound at all. I'm viewing eating now, not as an enjoyable social experience, but as a necessity to feul my body. I have been eating SO well for the past few days and I already feel infinitely better. Just wait, people, I'll come out the other end of this better for it. I fucking guarantee.

Have a good week at work, and I'll be trying to find things to talk about throughout the week. Laaaaaaaaaaaate.

Join me, won't you, on the home stretch of the second annual self-imposed sabatical from all things sinful. Any by sinful, I mean enjoyable. There are so many stages of Febrehab that you go through during the 28 days of detoxification. First there's the optimism, then the irritability, the pain, the eye gouging, the night sweats ... and eventually, the hump, followed by the denouement. I am now on the last stage -- and RIGHT on time. Remorse. After all I've gone through, why, oh why, would I subject myself to it again. I could just continue this forever and be nonetheworse because of it.

But, FUCK THAT. I think on Wednesday, after work, I will wait until that guy pulls on the tail of that bird perched on the rock outside and makes it whistle. I'll slide down the tail of the Brontosaurus and into my car. At that point, I will flick a Bic and enjoy a Prince flown fresh from Sweden. (BTW, did you catch my Jetsons reference?)

Wednesday and Thursday will be punctuated with the grand, world-wide tradition Berliners refer to as "Feierabend." Ja, meine Freunde, I am talkin about the Happy Hour! Oh, I can't wait. I need to get the chops up, though, to prepare for our victory celebration that I've dubbed "Febrehabruarii -- 28 Days, Not To Be Confused With Its Sequel, 28 Days Later." F28DNTBCWIS28DL? Doubtful. Probable? Keg. Come. BYO, though, the kegs for me. Daniel can have some. And Brett Sabulous could have had some if were going to be in town. Party starts at 8 in Addison Circle. Bring a friend.

I didn't really save any money this year. Instead, I spent every dime that I normally spend on alcohol and cigarettes dining on only the most expensive of cuisines. You haven't lived until you've had 3 foot long crab legs, or 6 lobsters wood grilled on the table in front of you, or rows of raw oysters on a halfshell abed a mound of Sonic ice. I gave up red meat in addition to the other carnal pleasures, so rare steak was off the menu. I didn't really lose any weight either, but damned if it wasn't worth it.

This was the best fucking Febrehabruarii of my life. I'll miss it when it's gone and look forward to next year (preview: Febrehabruariii). Thanks to all of you for your continued attempts to entice me to fail at my goal, and thanks to me for ensuring none of you succeed. Onward, and upward. To the bars!

Have you seen this Colgate commercial? They're implying that if your gums bleed a little bit when you brush that it could be a sign of gingivitis and that brushing with Colgate will fix that. But what gets me every time is the chick who says "When I saw a little pink in the sink...." You cannot tell me I'm the only one who hears "two in the pink, one in the stink" and looks up expecting to see the shocker.

I have a new goal. Well, actually, it's an old goal, but I'm going to go for it now. I want to own everything as seen on TV. I'm talking everything. I'm going to begin with the Faraday Flashlight. It's a flashlight that charges itself based on the electromagnetic principles discovered by English chemist and physicist Michael Faraday. I'm really impressed they named it after him too. I also like that you have to shake it in a masturbatorial motion in order to get it to work.

How was Vegas? Oh, I'm glad you asked. I won about 700 bucks. Yay! Unfortunately, I lost about 850. It was pretty fun though. I hit a couple of big pots on the slots. I was just in such a mood for slots. You know how it is, when you get all slotty, put on your slottiest outfit. I got to see the Allistralian! She is back in the contiguous United States. We were in Vegas together for her last night and my first night. Good times. I need to call her now that she's in Dallas. The rest of my trip was resignation fodder, but the odds of that blossoming beyond an idle threat are small. I used to have ambition. Sigh.

I don't have to work tomorrow. Rawk! Oh, I almost forgot it was still Febrehabruarii and I have to comment on it. I didn't crack whilst in Sin City. It was a huuuuuge challenge, but no problemo for yours truly. I've been having a lot of sober fun with my fellow rehabruaers, Daniel and Brett Sabulous. Oh, and in closing, let me just save you all 8 bucks -- do NOT go see Date Movie. Laaaaaaaaaate.

It was the best of sobriety; it was the worst of sobriety. I've officially made it a week. To be honest, I wasn't sure it was going to happen. This is harder than I remember. Day 3 is always the worst (obviously, read the last post). Day 7 though is when the physical addictions have quieted down to a murmur and the habitual addictions come screaming to the surface. Today I was on the A&M campus doing some recruiting for about 2 hours. I rode down and back to be there for 2 hours. Lame, I know. But just walking across campus made me want a cigarette so much that the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I resisted, though, don't worry. I am still participating in Febrehabruarii, as is Mr. Brett Sabulous. I guess everyone else is out ... since you can't start after the Super Bull.

Really this past week has been nothing short of a roller coaster for me. Some days I just feel fucking amazing and the next I'm really, really low. I've had a lot of fucking fun, and I've missed out on a lot. I'm not all that pleasant to be around ... sometimes ... and you never know when that time is. I've given up so much that sometimes it's hard to remember all the things I'm not doing. What I am doing, though, is working out like a mofo. To date, I've lost 7 pounds. That's a pound a day, retards. I should write a book.

So, I was on a high earlier, now I'm on a low. Give me five minutes or another triple shot venti cappuchino and I might be on a high again. Until then, go fuck yourself.

I'm not going to stand here in front of all of you and claim that my life is any more amusing, entertaining, or spectacular than yours. When I get up in the morning, I put my pants on one leg at a time. HOWEVER, you would not guess it from the life I've led recently.

Our story begins last Friday. I was sitting at work when I received a phone call from Daniel. He had gone to Galveston for the weekend and was upgraded to the Palladian Suite at the Treemont. He said I should come check it out. I shut down my PC, walked out the door, and drove straight to Love Field. I bought a plane ticket to Hobby and got on the plane. We had so much fun tearin up the mean streets of Galveston. Oh, Galveston, you poor, poor shitty little town. We walked all around trying out every bar in town, meeting all of the club owners and DJs, and making friends on the streets. We ended up going to an after party at a really nice loft one night and a really fun beach house the second night. There are too many funny stories from that weekend, you'll just have to hear them in person, as most of you have.

Then last night, I was invited by Brett Sabulous to accompany him to his company party. He works for a major hotel. I don't want to get him in any trouble with his company through my webpage, since his father googled him and read about our first night on the stoop. Anyway, I don't really have anything incriminating to say about our sandy and gritty friend this time. We just had too much fun. There was a casino at the hotel with fake money, and then you could purchase raffle tickets. I had $4,000 to start with and managed to piss away half of it when I decided to bet the rest on one hand and get back to even. This is why we do not take Sidesho to Vegas. I ended up betting everything I had left on the next hand and winning, and then continued to scream "LET IT RIDE" for the next few hands. A few wins and a blackjack later, I found myself with 16,000 dollars. We didn't win any raffles, but still had a blast. A few drinks and a few bars later, we were back in our palacial suite at the hotel in Addison!. Way, way too much fun. We got on the internet through the TV and were completely stupid. (After some taquitos, naturally).

I started this blog like 24 hours ago and just now got around to finishing it. There are a few more stories I need to tell but I'll save them for the next blog. Laaaaaaaaaaate.

I've had a couple of stories up my sleeve for about a week now. Usually if I'm too lazy (hungover) to blog right away, the story never gets told. Who knows what awesome parties went unblogged and have since been forgotten. Well, not this one. Not Miss Lesbie Ann's Housewarming Party!

It was so grood to have the old gang all back together. It was Leslie, Rick, Josh, Bob, Raul, Tyresa, Aaron. So not the entire gang, but certainly some key players. We had planned on two days of merriment, getting drunk and retelling old stories. It made me miss the days of Halo when you just knew each weekend was going to be more interesting than the last. But back to my story, Leslie's house is just beautiful. I'm a tad jealous, but we Addison folk don't long for equity. Josh got her a delicious candle. Aaron got her a golden blanket. But Bob ... oh, Bob ... Bob got her cocknballs.

As soon as Leslie unwrapped the rather sizeable frame, Josh said, "That's BOB!" And indeed it was. This bit of expressionism is titled "Señor Humps." If you'll look closely, you'll see that Bob has painted his anterior and posterior with different colors of paint and then sacrificed his body for his art. There's really a lot of emotion in it. Emotion and pubic hair.

Thanks for the killer party, Lester!

Story #2. The other day, my most sabulous friend Brett texted me and invited me out to dinner. We decided to take up Smith and Wollensky (one of my all time fav steakhouses) on their "eat your age" offer. Every day after 8:30pm, you can go in and get an appetizer, an entree, and a dessert and pay a dollar for every year you've managed to survive (minimum $25, maximum $65). I'm not sure why they do this, possibly because we were just about the only people in there that late, but surely they're taking a loss on it. But who cares, everything that I ordered totalled $60-70 easily, and I paid $25. It's an amazing deal, everyone go check it out.

There are very few exceptions to the offer. There's some seafood boquet appetizer for 100 bucks that's off limits. And the live Maine lobster and like a 30lb. lobster tail. Pretty much anything over 100 bucks you can't get but anything else you want. So when I was asked if I'd like the 8oz. filet mignon or the 14oz. I replied, "Derrrrrrrrr." Not to be outdone, Mr. Sabulous ordered himself the 28oz. prime rib. And of course, we're connoisseurs, so we got it all rare. So there are 42 fucking ounces of raw meat on our table, as well as some potatoes (as shown), creamed spinach, and a wonderful bottle of wine. It was a fight to fit it all in, but we certainly ate until we could eat no more. g*d, I love gluttony. We had to save room for dessert, too. So we had all that plus crab meat and fried calamari appetizers, six shooter sorbets and the trio of creme brulees, and we got out of there spending next to nothing. What a wonderful way to spend an evening, thanks Brett!

I'm fresh out of stories now, until next time, same Sidesho-channel. Peace.

I go to the sleep doctor tomorrow morning. From the research I've done, I have a feeling my life is going to consist of a little bit more of this than anything else. There is no mechanized cure for whatever it is that afflicts me; it's all chemical from this point on. I'm just crossing my fingers that I get a subscription to some kind of medication with a street value. *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge* Y'get what I'm sayin? Open up shop, beeyotch.

I'm actually pretty nervous. I make a lot of jokes about not sleeping, mostly because it's my favorite defense mechanism. The last time that I went to the doctor and they told me that I should stop using the CPAP because it wasn't the cure and that we'd have to do more testing, I sat in the parking lot for a while and cried. It's not so much that I care that I have to do all of this. I mean, I've gone through enough geriatric treatment for arthritic knees that I'm not hung up on wanting to be normal. Let's be honest, normal is just a synonym for average. But the utter frustration of the whole experience did get to me. That coupled with being exhausted, tends to weaken your barriers. But, fear not, dear viewers, for my optimism knows no bounds. I just know that tomorrow I'm gonna get some good news. Ooh, I hope they subscribe me some vicadin; I love that shit.

Tonight I got to see Miles' fabulous new residence. We are all very excited about the time that will be spent there together. Congrats Miles! Even though Mr. Sabulous and I were the only two people you forgot to mention on your website! This weekend I'm going to Round Rock to attend Miss Lesbie Ann's housewarming party. If any of you are in the area, give me a call and you can come to the party. I RSVP'ed to the e-vite with +46 guests just to throw off the guest count. Also, if anyone from Dallas would like to go with me, I'd more than welcome the company. Thanks and gig this. Later bitches.

I painted my bedroom ceiling. My walls were already dark green and now my ceiling is dark brown. It looks incredible. I still have some touching up to do, but I'm basically done. Here's a picture I snapped:

I'm trying to get my apartment in tip top shape before Mikey moves to Dallas. It's an indirect motivation since he's already seen my apartment and probably doesn't care either way on the ceiling color. But I needed a deadline to shoot for, so that's the one.

He's moving here on Friday. I am beyond excited. Also happening that weekend: My whole family is coming into town, Brandon is coming up from Austin to celebrate his birthday, Brett Sandy (so sabulous) is having his 21st birthday party, Addison Circle's Oktoberfest, Dallas Pride. I have a full plate to say the least.

I bought a vacuum finally the other day. It sucks. It's a bagless one and I got through like half of my living room and the canister was full. My 735 square feet of fun filled the damn thing 3 times. How disgusting is that?

Well I suppose I'll go to bed in my Hangover Palace now. It is insanely dark in there; I LOVE IT. HAPPY 22nd BIRTHDAY BRANDON!

I thought I could squeeze a few more aliases out of you, since I was enjoying them so terribly much, but I guess not. If you think of one later, please feel free to share it whenever it comes together.

I couldn't possibly wait to update, though the time that has passed, and the beers that have passed through my urethra since then may convolute the stories. Sorry, was that gross? Anyway, I wanted to let you all know that the Addison Circle is coming together. Premier new members? Namely Miles, Brett Sandy and Todd (although Todd's application is still under geographical review). Then there was Daniel and Kelly (?). They are my neighbors across the street.

So the story. Brett Sandy and I have been wanting to hang out ever since I got back from Sweden and just now decided to carpe the diem and giterdone. He came over under the premise that we would drink and watch movies and see what happened. Well, what happened is that Miles and Todd were enjoying the Dallas Wind Symphony (which ended up being a 5 piece brass band) down in the Circle. We joined them for a bit, listened to the Sousa, and then I went to get some liquor and beer. When we were walking into my apartment to enjoy said booze, we got whistled at. Who does that? There were two boys and a girl sitting on the stoop across the street, so Todd yelled at them, "Which one of ya'll whistled." Well it turned out to be Jordan, who came up to say hello and invite us to come across to join their party at Daniel's. Gay neighbor a stone's throw away? Huzzah.

So we went and drank and chatted and then they brought out the Roor. I'm not sure I can adequately describe the Roor. It was the biggest, most intricate bong ever constructed. I swear to g*d, they all but brought out the welding torch to put this thing together. It had like 3 water reservoirs in it. I've never seen anything like it. This coming from the guy who uses a bong as a flower vase -- and nothing but a flower vase -- go figure.

It's not often that SideshoViD.com delves into the seedy underbelly of drug consumption, and it won't be through my own personal experience that we go there, but we do have to talk a bit about Mr. Sandy. As you might expect, Brett Sandy is SABULOUS. He is both Sandy and gritty. He decided to puff-puff-pass for the first time given the circumstances. The combination of boxed wine, 100% agave tequila, vodka, beer and Mary Jane prooved too much for our fearless partier. Miles and I walked him home around midnight and put him in my bed. We could have just left him alone, but instead decided to interview him on video with Miles' digital camera to hilarious results. Can I get a copy of that, btw, Miles?

We rounded out the night just having a grand old time with about 6 of their friends and it must, must occur again. BUT, first I have to go to Cincinnati for 2 weeks following my trip to Austin this weekend. So I will be gone for 3 weekends in a row. Just as the Circle is rounding out! DAMNIT! I am going to find a hotel that definitely has high speed internet access (so I can work from the hotel room, duh) so I will surely be updating you all from the WONderous land of Ohio. I have a feeling it's the Oklahoma of the north. Ugh. But a change of scenery is a change of scenery. It's time to get horizontal. Peace, bitches.

When last we left our intrepid hero, we found him in the throws of Keystone admidst strangers. Let us now discuss everything that has occurred ... from blackout to blackout. Ryan Short left Dallas with three friends in tow -- Aaron, Aric and Brett. None of the three had ever been to College Station or anywhere nearly as cosmopolitan. They were expecting a cow town, and while we certainly are one, we did our best to restrict their visit to my apartment, HEB, Halo, and Johnny Carino's. In other words, no Dixie Chicken, Duddleys, Shadow Canyon, Chicken Oil Co. (or any Don Gainer owned, shotty wooden construction establishments).

I was over at 27's apartment when they arrived, but had left Owen with a phone number where I could be reached, since I had cleverly forgotten my phone at home. Once we arrived, we had a lot of fun ordering pizza, drinking beers (and Smirnoffs *shakes head disappointedly*), and inviting everyone we knew over. Even our dear friend Christina Lee from my major dropped by and ended up going to the club with us. My shirt from the Gap was still too big so I just wore the graphic T I had originally purchased as an undershirt. Many hours later, a large group of us were ready to get our drink on ... and we did just that. Aaron, the bartender, was very nice to us ... even giving us a free round of shots that I vaguely, vaguely remember. I had gone in with the vocalized goal of getting too drunk, a goal I never fail to meet. Several vodka tonics later, things get a little hazy. I know that we spent the night dancing erraticly.

On the way home, we stopped off at Whataburger to get some taquitos. This is just a given for me, I always stop at Whataburger, but it has become a sort of College Station activity for Ryan Short, and he wanted to share it with his crew. And I guess us talking about it got everyone in the mood, as is evidenced by the many, many fast food bags strewn about my living room. I'm not entirely clear on the rest of the night's activities. I know I drank a few more beers and woke up with no bruises ... so it couldn't have been too crazy. Let's just say "the sun came up on us" because it did. Which I hate. Off to sleep in a massive heap on the floor because some party poopers had crashed early in my bed.

The next afternoon, the grogginess starts to fade as we're motivated to stand up and drive to Johnny Carinos (which is literally across the street, a stone's throw from my apartment). I wasn't quite ready to eat, so I got a box for mine -- so trashy, I love it. Dallas boys bid adieu, 27 and I immediately went back to bed. My sleeping schedule is so wiggity whack ya'll. And my apartment looks like a train wreck ... provided that train had been carrying an assortment of empty beer cans, bottles, and fast food wrappers. Maybe I'll remedy that today ... or maybe it'll still be here the next time the Dallas boys come party.

There is a tentative plan to make our own pilgrimage to Dallas to live it up with them. I've been out in Dallas with Ryan Short many times, so I know that these country bumpkins from south Texas would absolutely love it. I will surely let you all know when that date is afoot. Until then, thanks to everyone who partied with me this weekend, you all uniquely enhanced my fun that had already runneth over. Later, have nots, have a good week.