"East End boys and West End girls."

I had managed to work myself into an odd mood. Never mind that I had just had a fantastically long, hot shower -- one of the highlights of the weekend ritual. I should have been on the verge of nirvana.

Perhaps it was the two rather large cups of coffee I had earlier or the lingering effects of the wild turkey shots I did at the Continental the night previous. But there I was, staring into the depths of a quiet Saturday alone and trying to stave off the pangs of depression.

I've never been one of those people who can sit still. Stir craziness comes easily on days where my time isn't focused on a central activity. And on this day I was trying to divert my attention on some DVDs of Dead Like Me.

One of the thoughts running around in my head was my new yet tenuous cache of friends. I was trying to think of excuses to call Holly -- trying to think up a casual activity that we could take part in that didn't involve a bar or dinner. Instead I wimped out and emailed her. Pathetic. (For those who haven't been keeping up, Holly is cute, not single, and dating a guy -- everything my life needs to complicate itself. Oh but wait, I have another date with Amy after I get back from DC.)

Meanwhile my motherfucking next door neighbors are listening to the Pet Shop Boys and the walls are so thin that I can not only distinguish the lyrics, but I can tell that one of my neighbors has decided to sing along. Badly.

Oh christ. Now he's trying to hit the high notes. Arrrrrrrrrrrgh.

Why isn't the L running this weekend? The MTA is sequestering me again!