Those dimples.

I'm so sure the idiots upstairs playing their music so loud it's actually hurting my head are listening to Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by the Offspring. Wow, they're so cool. Now it's Toxic by Mumma Spears. Good lord.

Actually, I do have to give them kudos for being confident enough to blare crap they like (that is crap nonetheless) out their windows and down throughout the entire building. Still, I wish they would stop, because the music IS crap, and I'd like to get to sleep. And there's so much pressure in my head, I'm actually worried my eyeballs might pop out (anyone seen that episode of ER? Trauma. It has scarred me irreparably).

I'm actually not all THAT irritated, though. Certainly not as much as I would normally be. It's amazing what can happen when you decide to just let shit go. So shit is let go as much as I can manage, but I can't let go my irritation at the fact that while Aleks and I were out on the balcony smoking a joint (yes, I've smoked a few too many lately, I know), a bottle whizzed by our heads from the penthouse (the only apartment above us) and landed on the street below. I know I've thrown a few parties in my time that have gotten a bit out of hand, but noise is one thing (People are yelling now! And whooping. And I wish I was kidding.), and bottles potentially hurting people pretty badly (we're on the 18th floor, so we're talking about bottles dropping pretty if they're coming from the penthouse above us) is something completely different. Alright, but I'm not going to get fired up about it (clearly, it's not going to improve the situation if I do, and it's only going to make life harder for me, not them), and since I'm up, I'll tell you about what I did today.

Huh. What I did today isn't actually all that exciting (welcome to my life.). The only exciting part to mention is that I actually cooked a real honesttogod meal. And it tasted fricking amazing. Steamed asparagus with hollandaise sauce (yes, the girl who hasn't a clue in the world how to cook, and doesn't particularly love doing it at all, managed hollandaise sauce -- and it wasn't lumpy!), salmon done in the oven with butter and lemon and lime juices and chumrika (sorry, I have no idea what the english word for it is), and this really neat basmati rice with fresh squeezed (by me!) orange juice and pulp and brown sugar. No recipes either! The whole thing was just whatever I remembered or could think up. I feel pretty good about the meal, though it was pretty nerve-wracking while I was going, because all I could think about was that I might be ruining eleven dollars worth of salmon, as well as a whole bunch of other food Aleks and I bought at the St. Lawrence market this afternoon. Anyway, hurray for me. It's kinda nice to know that I'm not the worst cook in the world, and that I might not have to keep running from the kitchen for the rest of my life. It's also nice to know that Aleks has said if I continue to cook she'll relieve me of my share of the cleaning duties in exchange for some yummy meals. I cannot express fully enough how happy not having to clean (well, except for my very messy room) would make me.

Speaking of cleaning, I need to devise a better system for sorting out my shit...maybe one that doesn't involve me dropping everything I own the minute I walk in the door, and leaving it wherever it lands. This system does not work. I could've swore I cleaned my room a couple of days ago, but you'd never be able to tell that from how it looks today. I have been accused of spreading out and moving inwherever I go, and of moving in everywhere I go. I've been told once or twice that it's endearing, but I've been harrassed about it many more times, and I really need to fix this.

My stream of thought has now been thoroughly interrupted by some guy in his thirties passing out with a loud crash in the hallway outside of my apartment. He's alright now, but when I went out there to see if they needed any help (as if I would have been any...these guys are easily a foot taller than me, but I couldn't see anyone from the peep hole), the guy's friend said they were from the party up in the penthouse (to which I responded rather dryly that, yes, I could hear the fucking party, but is your friend alright.). I thought the party upstairs was gawky little first-years revelling in their recently gained freedom from parents. But no, these are thirty year old greying men. Ha ha. Fucking losers (not because they're in their thirties, but because they're in their thirties listening to shitty music and throwing loud parties in the penthouse of a freaking apartment Aleks and I can afford to live in at 21 and 22...not exactly high living). Anyway.

Some memorable laugh-inducing remarks from one or more slightly drunken customers last night:

"It's not my fault I can't control myself. It's not my fault you're so fucking hot. You're fucking hot."
"Sarah, Sarah, Sarahsarahsarah, what are you doing after work tonight?" (to which I responded "Going home and getting into bed and going to sleep," and Pam followed up with, "She's got a boyfriend. And a girlfriend," which, of course, is a load of shit.)
"Aw, it's your fault. You've got those dimples. Ohmygawd, those dimples. You're so cute."
"Sarah, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror. Oh my gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawd."


Ha ha. Last night was a funny night. And my hand is a bit swollen, a bit bruised, and really sore from my little middle of the restaurant tumble last night.