Meow?

Three beers. This is the minimum number of beers it takes me to decompress from work. Until mid-way through beer #3 I am a catatonic freak-show. This is not good. I can no longer leave work, grab a drink with some friends and relax - unless I'm putting back a six pack or more. Which is fine - because as far as I'm concerned why drink at all unless it's to excess? But three beers? I suppose that this is what it means to be on the forefront of television.

And another thing: I've been experiencing an odd sensation as of late. It's best described as a burning sensation in my stomach and a constant twitch in my leg. From what I know about physiology, I'm suffering from stress. This is entirely and completely unacceptable. I'm too mellow to suffer from stress. My job is now harshing my mellow. This is distressing t0 say the least.

My only solution? Drinking more - and more often. And lots of downers. I swim every other day - but the endorfins don't last as long as they used to. So I've resorted to red wine, chain-smoking, whiskey, and pot to get me through the winter.

And now that I think about it - this job isn't half bad. An easy excuse to delve into complete dependency? Count me in!

Just don't ask me about work when I'm high. That's fucked up.