Failure.

2002-06-15 - 4:43 p.m.

And a bad back and 36-hour on-call shift where people die and grieve and mourn and are sick has dissolved the resolution, and here we are with beer, mine as-yet unopened.

And Pookie has provided me with a perfect excuse to not go tonight, and I'm telling myself there will be other nights and that time with him is important, and even though it is, time with him while drinking is less so.

And he doesn't know it, but he's disappointed that I'm going to this thing. He mentions irt like a distasteful after-thought, his first words upon hearing were "Oh." And then he asked if we could afford it, despite the $2000 in the bank account and the two-four of Keith's in the fridge.

So, down I quaff, remembering only to mention that he isn't the bad man that I sometimes make him out to be. He's just confused and trapped and alone as the rest of us.

Cheers,

The Magus

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