Beer and Whine

I went to the Hopleaf tonight and read the New Yorker, one of my favorite things to do on a weekend night. I sometimes feel like going out for a few drinks but doing so by myself, and it's not often that I treat myself to the atmosphere of the small, dim main room of the bar's first floor. It's not often that I can find space at the bar to sit with the current issue of the magazine.
But the lame poet/writer boy was in town this weekend, and he left me a few wistful voice mails, to which I finally responded saying "yes, let's grab a drink. But I'm bust all weekend. You have Saturday night."
So I got home from the gym, talked to Jay (see next post), got through the shower and told him I was going to the Hopleaf and he should call when he made it back up north.

I had a marvelous time with my magazine and my beers (Allagash White, thanks), and by the time he finally called, I was dreading the hangout. Well, had been, but it seemed close and real at that point.

No worries, he ended up wimping out, so I escaped unscathed, albeit drunk.

As I shuffled home, plugged into the mpod, it dawned on me that I have no idea what I want. With life or with anything.

And this makes me ... not sad, but...bored. God, am I depressed?

*sigh*

Or just drunk? Both?