Sunday ended up being uncharacteristically fun. I woke up and finally got a chance to catch up with Luke Skywalker. We got breakfast at the Waffle Window on Alberta, which was nice and fine and served a delicious champagne-and-lambic breakfast cocktail to start the day off right.

I spent the later afternoon in the backyard, writing and listening to the new Jose Gonzales album, Vestiges & Claws. I’m not generally a fan of singer songwriter, guy with a guitar music, but I really like his voice and interesting but sturdy guitar work. That video above makes me want to punch him, though. There’s a weird religion/gospel fetishization thing going on in European music right now that is bizarre and sinister to me. I’d love for a better writer than me to connect some of those dots because it’s a trend that’s been happening for a little while now.
Later in the afternoon, Luke and I had discussed going out and getting drinks. I had been wanting to get a little drunk somewhere for a couple of weeks, and it just hadn’t felt right. I’ve become a lot more selective about when and where and with whom I get drunk with, and for various reasons, I hadn’t felt comfortable. Luke then left, and I wasn’t quite sure what her plan was but I was so into the idea of going out that I reached out to another friend to go out with.
That’s how I ended up spending like four hours at an eastside bar called The Standard. I was hanging out with my friend Hunter Thompson, and like every time we hang out, we spent most of the time bitching about work and complaining about online dating. After a couple hours, Luke and her boyfriend joined us, and we all went out to another bar for some food and shuffleboard. By that point, I was well drunk, but having a good time.
As soon as I got home, the next-day blues started to hit me. I’m very susceptible to bluesy feelings of having no more good brain chemicals left. All sorts of substances, and sometimes even just a really fun day can make me feel it. Even though I was starting to get hungover, I was able to keep presence of mind enough to remember not to replay tapes in my head about what I had done and pick everything apart until there were no good memories left, and I remember waking up around 3am and falling asleep to a lovingkindness meditation. (I started with myself, which is backwards, and (hilariously to me the next day) my “enemy” was the writer Eve Ensler, who I had heard interviewed on a podcast and who had annoyed the shit out of me.) When I woke up this morning, I had mostly shaken it all off, and was able to just get ready to meet the day. I think another time, certainly other times when I’ve been more depressed, the sheer amount of vice-y fun I had would have been enough to make me feel ashamed of myself and guilty and like I didn’t deserve the fun the next morning.