Good damn. Just when I start to think that dancing might be getting a bit old*, I go out and have a night like tonight. [*For most things, you reach a point where you step back and ask yourself if you’re doing what you’re doing because you actually enjoy it, or if you’re only doing it because it’s whatever you’ve always done. That was me and dance, recently. Tonight’s verdict: I enjoy it.]

Saw Mandy at the dance, which was a most welcome event. She had dropped off the face of the earth almost a year ago, without explanation; tonight she muttered something about a car accident. (Yikes.) Also got to dance with many familiar faces (Twee was back in town; Jenny—of “my genius” fame—was ready to talk smack), touch base with old friends (Robin’s sticking around after graduation! yay!), and get insulted by Jimmy (jokingly), followed by having Connor call me “hot stuff.” Jon showed off his new dance shoes, which are a tangible sign that he’s committed himself to dancing (to some degree); I get a kick out of watching him improve over time. Basically: when I wasn’t dancing—reasonably well, even—I was chatting… and when I wasn’t dancing or chatting, I could watch people I know dancing and enjoying themselves. That makes for a hell of a good time.

Tonight definitely made up for this last week.

Which brings me to: this last week. In one word: “work.” In more words: the stress of arriving to see an insurmountable amount of paper in my cubicle, followed by learning of a new bug in the programs I wrote—every single day—wasn’t too kind on me. I also continued my habit of staying up too late and getting up too early, which took me to the point (Wednesday, I think) where I started completely forgetting what I had done. I normally have a difficult time remembering what I did the previous day, but this was pure chunks of time erased from my brain. To top it off, I coded my Friday and Saturday nights away in this weakened state.

I slept in a whole lot this weekend, so I’m pretty sure I’m over that now.

…

I do remember, despite my reduced mental state, the names of the people who work at the Beanery on Thursday night—something which Brian and I learned this last week. (Note to self, in case I forget: Tom and Jessica.) Our Beanery experience should be much-improved (from its already enjoyable state) now that we’re on talking terms with them.

Last weekend, Brian and I drove up to Portland to visit Andy. We ate a tasty dinner at “M.C. Menamins,” and then played a game of pool at a hall that Andy sold to us as having cute waitresses. Andy ordered a beer at this place, after having two pints at McMenamins, and then decided that he should probably sober up if he wanted to drive home. (I’ve driven a stick before… but it’s been a while, and I’m not terribly comfortable in Portland traffic. Of course, it was late at that point, so the traffic wasn’t too terrible…) He therefore, rather than drinking it himself, ordered me to take a swig of this beer every time I screwed up my shot in the game of pool we were playing.

I suck at pool.

This is also notable for another reason, that only those who really know me would know: I don’t drink. I had a Hard Cranberry Lemonade a few months ago, as a poor man’s test to see if my hand tremor was actually an essential tremor (alcohol weakens that tremor, temporarily)—and that is my tremor—but I’m not a drinker.

That’s now ammended: I’m a damn light drinker.

And Hefeweizen sucks.