Late night indulgences.

The time is 03:38. My girlfriend is, presumably, sound asleep. I, on the other hand, have on this splendifious evening decided to sit up and entertain my fantasies about learning to play the piano. As such, I am at the moment sitting on my couch listening to everything from Hugh Laurie to Chopin. My fingers dancing over the keyboard of my laptop in a pattern more reminicent of what they were used to during my two years of piano lessons, than what has been more common in the latter years of computer zealotry.

My hand stretches out for the nearly empty glass on the table next to me. A light fire surges. Warms through the throat, between my lungs and down to the stomach. I pour another glass. My girlfriend gave me the glass for my birthday. I like them (there were two). Drinking whiskey from a halflitre glass 'cause it was the only that had a broad enough bottom to fit the icecubes didn't really feel right. However, these glasses scare me. They are so thin, and seemingly brittle (like the anorexic you're afraid to touch because you're afraid they will break), that I'm almost afraid I will bite off a chunk of glass. Not that I usually bite the glasses I drink from...

I've been wathcing House MD for the last hundred and ten minutes (I watched two episodes in their entierty, and one twenty minutes through before realising I had seen it before). I don't seem to tire of that series. I long since stopped watching it mostly for interesting medical cases. They usually follow some sort of pattern, and I find myself always waiting for the moment someone says something completely unrelated and Dr. G. House suddenly becomes horribly detatched, you get a close-up of his eyes, and he stormes out. No, I watch it more out of a pleasure of the characters (House especially), humourous moments and the general progression of the characters and their relationships. Which is to say that they have got me hooked with the classic claws of television series.

I will now further indulge in my love for long running TV shows, piano, whiskey, cynicism and English by watching another episode or two of House MD, knocking back some more whiskey and ponder upon something more to write. Until then...

After having stared through another House episode I find that I am almost just as blank as I was when I left off before. This whole post seems rather meaningless; but then again so is my entire blog. Not so much a diary, or a place where I write down all my brilliant ideas and realisations, as it is a place where I write meaningless entries, much for my own entertainment and to use a bit of English.

I am currently reading Douglas Adams' 'Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency'. I am, however, not devouring it with the same pleasure that I did 'The Hitchikers Guide to The Galaxy', or 'The Salmon of Doubt'. Why? Beats me. It is still fun though.

I should probably go to bed. My whiskey glass is running empty for the second time, and my girlfriend has been alone in bed for longer than I should wish. Unfortunately my ears, my oesophagus and my fingers disagree and cling eagerly to the music, whiskey and keyboard respectivly. They will yield to the authoroty of my exhausted brain and longing heart eventually. Which seems almost a shame, as I finally am able to write without much concern for what actually appears on the screen. One of the magnificent side effects of sleep deprivation and alcohol. Not caring for what is produced.

Half past five. I stretch out for the glass on the table next to me. I pour the last reminder of whiskey down my throat. And, as the voice of Melody Gardot fade out, ending my youtube playlist, my fingers move from the keyboard to the mousepad.


(I am eternaly greatfull for the save option on these pages. Without it this post would be rushing for oblivion).