What’s passed is past.

Undoubtedly, I have had an odd set of days.  While the week stretches on (so very fucking slowly), I’m preparing for an awesome weekend away in Chicago to celebrate an early St. Patrick’s Day. My self-esteem has taken a huge plunge, then life continued to shit down my throat again releasing the hugest zit known to my face since age 15. I just invested in over $100 worth of face goodies from Murad, so this best be the end of this kind of monkey business. How awesome — I’m spending a small fortune to keep my face from looking older, yet I’m breaking out as if I went back to Memorial Junior High School.

Anyway. Addicted to Vinyl does a fantastic job of writing about our Monday night at Melt and The Winchester. Thankfully, I had a much better experience this time around at Melt. The Big Popper goes on my list as one of my favorite sandwiches. Ever. And now I’m obsessed with powdered sugar and jam on my bread. While ATV was more a fan of Jay Nash‘s music, I was really digging Greg Laswell. The song “Days Go On” has been on constant playlist this week – both the album version and the live Daytrotter session.

Back to Jay Nash (of course, having nothing to do with his music or his really sweet guitars) — he was really fucking hot. In a weird, when he looked out into the audience and locked eyes with me I got all nervous, hot. And while I’m normally not a “look at his shoes” kind of girl. I noticed his shoes while he was performing. And not only did he have a great voice, but he was a package deal, if you know what I mean. Can you sense my deprivation? I suppose if I were anywhere near being imbibed, I would have tried to make a move on him. But all I could think about was my bed. Or how good he would look in it. Yum.

As if I didn’t torture myself enough with one night of senseless caloric intake, Tuesday night My Boys met me at Wonder Bar for a little pre-gaming before the Chili Cook-Off at Cadillac Ranch/Barroom (one word). And being that a few small cups of chili didn’t do the trick for the drinking hunger to ensue, JB and I ordered a teriyaki chicken sandwich and macaroni and cheese to share at Corner Alley. And there was this guy at the bar who JB said kept looking at my boobs. Enough so, where he was uncomfortable. Of course, when he got up to use the restroom, this strange guy started talking to me. Am I from Cleveland? Is it usually busier here during Cavs home games? Blah. Blah. Blah. He was older and not attractive and said he was from Boston (but didn’t carry any of the 12 Boston accents in which I am familiar). I really had to stop myself from asking if he liked my t-shirt.

And staying out past my curfew a few nights during the week did a number on my sleep schedule (again). It took me 3 hours to fall asleep Wednesday night even after drinking Sleepytime Tea AND popping a couple Simply Sleep. I think when they finally discover a means to end my insomnia, it will put me to sleep forever.

And with dreams and sleep(lessness), we have ghosts. Right? That was the lamest segue into a new topic ever. In a continuing effort to absolve all my Ghosts of Relationships Past, I was in touch with someone very, very important to me (and my past) this weekend. And I’m really happy that it occurred. While still making my heart jump, it was a certain sense of peace in which I have struggled to maintain with “how we left things.”

And here I am, listening to “Days Go On” again. And it (almost) all makes sense.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.