Speak, Raspberry Ale

I happened upon the blog of a girl who graduated from my college my year. I never met her, though I knew people who knew her, and I was kind of horrified to read how similar her blog was to mine. She wrote about biking to work, close calls with reckless drivers. She posted not-terribly-remarkable photos of things around her. A few days after New Year's, she lazily jotted down a few resolutions--"getting into grad school" was one--and mentioned that she should blog more often because her writing style is deteriorating: she noted, self-consciously, that she was forsaking structure. She then proceeded to blog sporadically. Just how many of us are there, anyway?

I have things to write about, but perhaps too many. It's 1:25AM and past my (wholly theoretic at this point) bedtime. I should go to bed, but I still have some of this raspberry-flavored beer to drink--a dubious purchase, at best--

M. left at 12:45. He's putting on a show Friday, so there are posters to be stapled to the telephone poles outside bars, flyers to be fanned out on tables inside them. I wonder when he'll be back and whether I'll be able to get to sleep in the meantime.

I know I don't blog often, but I still ought to introduce a few people to my unofficial cast of characters. At least one, for now: Nigel, the Englishman. We didn't even know this guy until 2007, but these days he and M. are inseparable. He rides with us on the train. He meets us for lunch sometimes. We go out together. We have dinner with him more than one night a week, usually just the three of us, but sometimes he brings one of his girlfriends. I think there are three now, or perhaps he's even down to two, but he's never had one at a time. I have heard there is a good explanation for this, but I have not heard the explanation myself.

Nigel is also throwing parties with M., and as I type they're flyering together. I envision M. getting home at an ungodly hour because Nigel is with him, and Nigel is slow.

This is not what I mean about having a lot to write about. It was M.'s birthday on Saturday, and Friday night was one of the wildest nights I can remember. And back to Nigel, I could easily write a book with all the mad, mad stories he's told us, and now that I've introduced him I may decide to spice up this blog with them.

The raspberry beer is gone now, so good-night.