The doctor says I'm not 'sposed to drink for a month cause of my condition, but I don't listen to no fancy doctor with no fancy labcoat with the stethoscope and the thermo-meter, so I got hammered tonight. 'Plastered,' in the parlance of our times. It was all okay cause it was Pete's birthday and Andy was there, and Zach, and Dan. And Al brought me some jumper cables, and Mike's mom made cookies, and gave us a ride to Justin's place in a mini-van. And earlier Craig called from Oakland, and yesterday I talked to Frank who's coming up for Thanksgiving and also I vacuumed (two 'u's, are you kidding?) the shit out of my room and this is what it's like when I yap about inane bullshit on my blog, and it doesn't feel quite right, does it? First of all there are all sorts of holes in my story. For example I haven't mentioned any girls that were present at the plastering, when in all fairness Maia came through, with her boyfriend. And that was the only girl I've seen for awhile, which seems odd when compared to the veritable menagerie of women who surrounded me during my time in Daegu. I swear it was like a freaking Lollapalooza plus Woodstock (plus what's the one where all the hippies got beaten by the Hell's Angels? Altamont!) and I was like Tom Jones or Englebert Humperdink or even (Ok, I'm gonna come right out and say it) Air Supply. I was bigger than Jesus and the Beatles combined in the Land of Morning Calm. What is that anyway, the slogan of Korea? New Jersey is the Garden State and Georgia is the Peach state. New York is the Empire State. Where was I? That's right, drunk at the computer in the Golden State. Is it sad when you go home alone to computer and blog till your speeling (sic you fucking alphabet Nazi, whoever you are...Patrick) makes no sense and you blatantly misrepresent Maude Flanders by adding the surname of Simpson to her still freshly decaying animated corpse? No, I think that's pretty healthy. By the by, Craig demands that the flatulent wife play a recurring role in the fictional misadventures of Andrew, and I can't see why she shouldn't rear her gassy head (that's truly non-sensical, but I hope you'll catch my drift) every now and again. The farting wife plays an important role in all of our lives, doesn't she? I was thinking that she'd be a wonderful addition to the latest edition of Canterbury Tale: first the Millner, then the parishioner, and finally the flatulent wife arrive at Canterbury to make her pilgrimage. The Socratic method is certainly establishing it's presence in today's blog as well, isn't it? And that wraps up an eventful post-Korea life in the day. I hope tomorrow treats me kindly enough to appreciate the state of mind I'm in right now.