F^$#

I don't wanna be so violently, illiterately nasty to myself. The sax player was an asshole whose music sucked and whose piano skills were inferior to mine and twenty years and not two in the making and who squawked around like a wannabe Jack Black (and yeah, who would wanna be.) and was trying to get me to admire him and I know that. And I don't wanna be that trainwreck who storms offstage in tears anytime someone tells her she's less than brilliant despite the whole audience's applause. But that seems to be who the F I am. And I know it's because I drink too much. And I know I was a total bitch to Carlos for no reason at all. And to every audience member who came up to me as I sped out of the place knocking my equipment over to say they loved it and I rolled my eyes and said Yeah right like a F'in a-hole, and why would this place ever book me again and why would C even ever talk to me again. I wish I wasn't like this, I don't know what to do about it, I wish J's beta-blockers came in yesterday or today so I could've taken them and then I probably wouldn't have drank myself into this state which never feels like drunk because of the rampant alcoholism and Irish blood but undeniably, unmistakably, affects my judgment and my moods. GREAT. Great. Great.

But I figure I might as well burst several bubbles with one mood swing and I AM gonna tell Julian about my feelings for him on Tuesday, it really is just pathetic not to, and deal with the blows as they all come and see if I won't drink myself to death by midweek.

STAY TUNED

SOD