Thursday was my last day in jail. (And I'm totally going straight now. No more gangbanging, no more crank.) I'll miss it, in a way, but I don't think I'd want to do it as my regular job. Jail is still jail, even if you do have a key to the staff bathroom.
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One thing I realized after hanging out with my college friends last week is that I don't remember ANYTHING. Nothing. I have one or two stock memories from each year of my life, and that's about it. For example, apparently I was once in Target with my friend Joanna and she collapsed from dehydration and I called the ambulance and followed it to the emergency room, where my friend Yvette and Joanna's weeping fiance met me.
I have no memory of this whatsoever. If Gabriel Garcia Marquez is right that what matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it, then as a friend recently pointed out to me, I am really screwed.
So if I record things a bit obsessively at this point, at least it's not without good reason.
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I can't believe I missed two episodes of Six Feet Under and already Claire's lesbian phase is totally over. Dammit, man. Dammit.
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This weekend = college girls in Vegas, baby.* Yvette (who lives there) just got engaged, so we will all be celebrating that. And hopefully winning my rent money. I came out $2 ahead in the poker game at Danny's Saturday night, so I think I'm a contendah.
*Ever since Swingers I have lost the ability to say the word "Vegas" without following it with "baby." Hopefully I can kick this habit before this weekend, as it is no doubt annoying to actual residents of Vegas.
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