A lot happened this year, apparently, but I know that a lot didn't happen this year. I guess that's the case with every year. Well, it ain't this year anymore, it's already next year, and I have an apartment full of hot men, asleep, who seem less bothered about my mess than I. One of them just knocked on my door to see why I was still awake.

The evening began with a nice albariño, and moved on to mojitos and tsunami cocktails, riding a sumptuous feast of fish and chicken curries, and chhole, and sambhar, and baked duck, and pork with sauerkraut, fueled with basmati rice and Italian and French breads.

We watched the episodes of Boondocks that I had taped, and laughed. I declared that Mr. McGruder deserved a Presidential Medal of Honor.

Chocolates and cookies also graced our palates off and on, and some folks left to seek the comfort of their own beds, but only after being entertained by the humor that the libations released from the rigors of our intellects.

A digit changed, but life remains the same. What more could I ask for, while I try like hell to be more like myself?

6:02:16 AM