A Cry for Help
For those of you who've known me for some time, or if you've been reading along to this blog since its inception, you probably have a pretty solid understanding of the fact that I like to party and have a good time. You might have noticed that I haven't written many entries lately, or at least not many coherent posts during the entire month of August. Well, I'm pretty embarassed about this, but I don't know what to say, or how else to say it. So here goes...
My family has finally stepped in with the decision to enroll me into an Arizona rehab center. We're all getting on a plane to escort me out there tomorrow morning, and I should be there all fall. I thought I was strong enough to try heroin just once back in July, but I just couldn't handle it. I just didn't know.
I'm completely fucking with you, of course--keeping you on your toes and all that good shit. The truth is, I haven't posted much lately because I've been really lazy about writing. For example, I have a very weak excuse for having not published "One of Those Nights" or "Everybody Panic" yet. Basically, I find myself fumbling for the right words to describe the pristine enjoyability of the Deer Creek show. I've been thinking about wrapping it up with a simple, "Everything about Deer Creek was completely fantastic." While short and to the point, you guys deserve more to read on a boring Friday afternoon.
[Please note: I have published both of the above-referenced posts. Find them. They're certain to make your Friday afternoon more enjoyable.]
My actual cry for help is this: Through a web of mundane debacles, my cell phone numbers were erased, with no hope of retrieval. Murton was nice enough to have his dad ship me one of his old phones for the time being. (I'm holding out for the Razr, due at Verizon stores by early December.) I have nobody's telephone numbers, so if you want to email or call me with them, that'd be awesome. Given my propensity for calling drunk and at inappropriate hours, I will not hold it against anyone should they choose to refrain from sharing their contact info. After all, I'm pretty much an open book right here, and there's a strong chance that I'd forget what you told me in about a week anyway. (It's so easy to be cynical, but such a struggle being Pat.)
By the way, I've been operating with about five numbers for the last week, yet my level of intoxication puzzlingly failed to decrease one bit. Go figure. I promise to write more often in the next few weeks. It's not like I haven't been gathering material, it's just that I haven't felt like writing all that much.
Before I go, here's a big What I See shout out to my buddy Rico, who will be reading from Mexico City for the next several months. Secure those vital organs before you go to sleep, bro!
Off to commit more generally reprehensible acts...
My family has finally stepped in with the decision to enroll me into an Arizona rehab center. We're all getting on a plane to escort me out there tomorrow morning, and I should be there all fall. I thought I was strong enough to try heroin just once back in July, but I just couldn't handle it. I just didn't know.
I'm completely fucking with you, of course--keeping you on your toes and all that good shit. The truth is, I haven't posted much lately because I've been really lazy about writing. For example, I have a very weak excuse for having not published "One of Those Nights" or "Everybody Panic" yet. Basically, I find myself fumbling for the right words to describe the pristine enjoyability of the Deer Creek show. I've been thinking about wrapping it up with a simple, "Everything about Deer Creek was completely fantastic." While short and to the point, you guys deserve more to read on a boring Friday afternoon.
[Please note: I have published both of the above-referenced posts. Find them. They're certain to make your Friday afternoon more enjoyable.]
My actual cry for help is this: Through a web of mundane debacles, my cell phone numbers were erased, with no hope of retrieval. Murton was nice enough to have his dad ship me one of his old phones for the time being. (I'm holding out for the Razr, due at Verizon stores by early December.) I have nobody's telephone numbers, so if you want to email or call me with them, that'd be awesome. Given my propensity for calling drunk and at inappropriate hours, I will not hold it against anyone should they choose to refrain from sharing their contact info. After all, I'm pretty much an open book right here, and there's a strong chance that I'd forget what you told me in about a week anyway. (It's so easy to be cynical, but such a struggle being Pat.)
By the way, I've been operating with about five numbers for the last week, yet my level of intoxication puzzlingly failed to decrease one bit. Go figure. I promise to write more often in the next few weeks. It's not like I haven't been gathering material, it's just that I haven't felt like writing all that much.
Before I go, here's a big What I See shout out to my buddy Rico, who will be reading from Mexico City for the next several months. Secure those vital organs before you go to sleep, bro!
Off to commit more generally reprehensible acts...
posted by Pat at 9:20 PM
1 Comments:
For a second, I sincerely thought that V and K had decided to send you to AZ. Scary!
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