In Hookah's Place

Blogger will have to suffice. The reasons as to why my place is not with my friends tonight (after a hearty Thanksgiving dinner) is something I'll leave for your imaginations... or the lack thereof.

As drinking becomes a recreational activity for the majority of my peers (perhaps even my own, but that's on a later note), I find the act of drunk-dialing, drunk-texting, drunk-anything, in fact, to be an entertaining complement. No, that wasn't meant to be some sarcastic comment on how I absolutely abhor alcohol (which I don't, but again... on a later note). That, ladies and gents, is an attempt at sincerity. Visualize and imprint this scene into your cerebrum.

Here you are, sitting ever so quietly in what could very well be the most comfortable sofa you have and will come across in your life. Shit, man. You aren't even one to utilize superlatives. So there, nice and snug, you sip quietly away at some warm drink--since some of you out there are obviously incredibly anal about tea and/or coffee--content with whatever Life has brought upon you thus far. Then you feel your phone vibrate in your back-left pant pocket... a feeling that is undoubtedly uncomfortable, mind you. And you hear his voice on the other line:

"Baby! I loooooooooove you, man.
Seriously. You... are awesome... and... Hm. You know, I never really
looked at the back of my palm befo--"

You hear the phone click and befriend the following dial-tone. Lovely, isn't it?

--

A minor digression from thought brings me back to Blogger with a post-Dirty-Dancing mindset.

Ah.