Have you ever had the experience where some nights you drink enough to kill a small water buffalo and the next day you're fine, and other nights you have a small amount to drink and it just kills you? You guessed it I'm hungover from actually an insultingly small amount of liquor. It must be the stress.

Well my gentle readers tech support can not arrive until next Thursday. Of course I start work next monday which is going to mean an awful lot of money spent at the computers at kinkos so I can get my syllabii done in time. That on top of the awful lot of money I'm paying for some tech to come into my house and help me out. Not to mention all the lost time spent trying not to freak out and or be upset about this whole thing.

But I'll be able to use the computers at work to write posts, so I will at least finish the paris diaries (without photos unfortunately) and hope and pray tech support can save what's on my computer.

But this brings me to an important point that I thought I would bring up with you all. I'm thinking of leaving of the country. No not tomorrow. Nothing that sudden. But I've lived in NYC for 14 years. And my time in France, as upsetting and annoying as it was a great deal of the time, convinced me that part of the reason that I drink so much here is mainly because I am no longer challenged or invigorated by my life here. And let's add something else to that. Once you live in NYC, you can move to Mystic CT or some sleepy little town where you can't buy gummy bears at 2 am. Or at least I can't. I'd have to move some place amazing. Lately I walk around NY and can't help but think of how ugly it is. There are so many beautiful cities in the world with history that goes back more than 200 years and I can't help think that a mind like mine would be better served in such a place. I know the Doberman doesn't want me to leave, but I've lived enough of my life for men and I still go home to that empty bed. I have to think going home to an empty bed in a fabulous new location might be a bit more exciting. (No I wouldn't be moving in with my beloved parisian paramour in case that's what you're thinking.)


It's a beautiful day and I thought I would go to the park to save what's left of my tan, but my head seems to have other plans. I think I shall return home and swallow a bottle of advil.
So yesterday my computer died, which wouldn't have been so bad if the 16 pages of notes I had been working on about frhel hadn't been backed up because my internet died this weekend. And then Flickr ate some of my old photos, all of which are, of course, on my computer. And then my ipod died.

I did what any person would do. I went and got drunk.

So hate my life right now. Why did I ever come back?