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11-27-01 - 9:28 p.m. I entered the apartment tonight, coughed, and made my way toward my bedroom to slip into something a bit more...comfortable. Like a pair of sweats and bulky sweater. Legwarmers and two pairs of socks. Fuzzy pink slippers and gloves. Sexy, eh? Bryan stopped me on my way past the kitchen to interrogate me. "Home mighty late, aren't we?" he asked with a very "I-know-what-you've-been-up-to-and-I-want-details" sort of look on his face. "Bryan, it's 8:30." "Oh yeah, huh?" "Yeah. Huh." "You're high!" "I'm not." "You so are! Your eyes are bloodshot!" "I'm tired and my eyes are dry." "And you're drunk!" "Yet surprisingly coherent." "Then you've had sex..." "..." "...with TWO guys!" "No. Stop living out your fantasies vicariously though me. It isn't healthy." "Didn't you do anything illegal and dirty tonight?" "Sorry." "You're no fun." Justin made us all chili in breadbowls and we sat down for a quick chat about what we all did today. Apparently we are the three most boring renters in America, because the conversation went nowhere. I caved and decided to contribute to the California energy crisis by turning on the heater. It gets into the low 40s and 30s here at night and during the morning (when I'm getting ready for work) and I refuse to die of frostbite. Now, I realize any readers from, say, Antarctica are scoffing at my complaints. But dammit, I'm a Southern California girl and anything below 70 is freezing for me! So there. It's arctic death cold.
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