Wednesday, August 06, 2008 smelly day.

Dear Diary,

Today, I ate a Reuben sandwich that viciously tore apart the roof of my mouth (much like Cap'n Crunch cereal) in an Irish pub that reaked of a subway platform on a hot summer's day. The pastrami was an unnerving hue of pepto bismol pink. Ooh and meat sheen. Kaliedescopic, oil slickesque meat sheen never fails to give me the willies.

Also, I wore my former signature perfume. I say ex- because it causes my olfactory sensing pathways to manifest the scent into a phantom hangover. Historically, I'd spritz l'eau d'vomit all over the head and crotch before a night of heavy carousing/rabble rousing. I'd envitably stumble home and fall alseep full clothed only to wake up still half drunk with sticky eyelids. Now-a-days, even I can't wear it, smell it, cruise by the fragrance counter, without feeling like I need someone {ahem, Jessica} to read to me from the AA bible, a'la reverse bedtime story. "You could have killed someone, or yourself." For shame.


  1. I stopped wearing Prada too, but only for practical, i.e. financial reasons: my bouteille done ran out.

    I'm truly sorry for encouraging binge drinking that "could have killed ourselves or others." You should come visit me now that I'm on the wagon--sharp cheddar cheese on triscuits is what's getting me lifted these days. Love and miss you, boo.


The divine PB&J in me, salutes the divine PB&J in you.