This gets a little gross at the end

Aliens stalk you and love the taste of your fear. (more on sleep paralysis)

I really despise businesses without websites. I want to send these businesses boxes of meatloaf that have been left in the hot midday sun. I want the meatloaf to be springloaded, so that when the luddite business owners open the package a soggy brick of processed meat slaps them in their jowly faces.

How am I supposed to know if you offer benefits, business without a website? How am I supposed to know if you have openings for our disabled clients? How? Answer me. Answer me! Or is your mouth too full of weeks-old meatloaf?

The women next to me are talking about disgusting . . . about some operation one of their sons is having, where the white of the eye will be removed and someone will fiddle with the muscle beneath . . .

The grossness is past. Sort of.

I already boozily told this story to Heather, or tried to, but: last night at the Lift, after Andy then Ryan then Alyssa then Heather abandoned me, I was left next to Steve, drinking my bright blue rocket fuel. Dan, this 40's-ish guy with a Ralph Wells quality, sidled up next to us. Steve had just asked how I can sleep on the floor every night, and was now telling me all about his wonderful and expensive mattress. Dan leaned in and said something like, "You could say you're on cloud nine then?" To which Steve said, "what?" And Dan repeated himself. I finished my deliciously blue drink and spun the empti martini glass around on its base. "I guess," Steve said, and we both stared ahead, and then Dan leaned in closer and asked, "Or is it cloud sixty-nine?" And I knew it was time to get the fuck out.

More on the disgusting teeth front.