Aimless

I really have no self-control at all. I can sit here, at 3am, typing this, thinking "uh-oh, it's a work night, I really should be in bed by now" -- and look, even type about thinking that -- and still not do the right thing. Instead, I'll just polish off the last of what was until a short time ago an unopened bottle of wine and tippy-tap fatuous gibberish into my so-called blog. Won't that be fun?

This is what happens when Ian goes away.

Not, I hasten to point out, that this is anything to do with him, at least not in the way you think. I'm not staying up stupidly late fuelled by alcohol and anything else at hand to make up for the spousal absence, far from it. I'm always like this. Left to my own devices I would be permanently adrift in a haze of fucked-up hedonism, wafting around the internet for days on end, sleeping at random hours, indulging every passing whim, mitigated only by intense but ineffectual guilt. It's just that normally I have a regulator. An anchor. An earth wire. A drogue.

Hey Ian, you're a drogue! Doesn't that make you proud?

I've heard -- made -- to Ian even -- more resounding proclamations of love. But it can't all be hearts and flowers.

As you may have guessed, Ian doesn't yet know about or read this blog, although I suspect the whole Marching Boys thing will probably lead him to it before too long. Or maybe I'll fess up. Or something.

Somehow, I don't think he'll approve.

In any case, I was trawling back through Bravo's archives, and I came across this comment by a namesake:

Ooooh!

Sobering thought, isn't it?

And talking of sobriety, the bottle is empty. Perhaps it's time for bed after all.

Posted by matt at August 15, 2003 03:30 AM