i was born in the backseat of a mustang, on a cold night, in the pouring rain

Actually, that's not true. I was born in a hospital under close medical supervision. But that's the chorus of this song by this band that I've been listening to on my iPod when I stand out in the snowy backyard wearing my mom's Ugg-like sherpa slippers and many layers of fleece and flannel to sneak cigarettes. But then early yesterday I ran out of cigarettes and have had the damn song running through my craving, anxious and fuzzy brain ever since. Given the degree of suck involved in withdrawal from smoking five a day (that's individual cigs, not packs,) I can pretty much swear on my most valuable possession in the world, Furry the Bean-bag Bear, that I will never, ever smoke more than that. (Well, at least not on a regular basis--chain-smoking while drunk is just a given. [Is that good enough punctuation for you, FAB? Aside from the fact that it's not a complete sentence?])

Fortunately, this quitting practice will be halted temporarily when I head down to Madison tomorrow to celebrate interacting with a human being under the age of 45 for the first time in almost two weeks. I refuse to celebrate New Year's Eve because, like Valentine's Day, it's one of those holidays on which certain things are supposed to happen (e.g., having insane amounts of fun at some party you're being totally ripped off to attend, having a significant other who isn't as bitter and cynical as you are) and they often don't because they're simply out of your control, and then an otherwise fine, ordinary night is a big disappointment. Whereas for Thanksgiving and Christmas you just get together with some people and eat a lot. But I digress. Point is, my brain feels like it's tumbling around in a clothes dryer and I'm going to Madison to get drunk this weekend. Yay! Happy End of 2004!