Cafe Martinique.

So I haven’t posted in awhile. This is partially because I’m beginning to doubt the practicality of having a blog that’s available to, oh, everyone that has an internet connection. But I do like memorializing my progress through life. Why a diary wouldn’t suffice, I’m not entirely sure. It’s easy to chalk it up to egotism, but I’m not certain that the mere act of publication to the masses is a sufficient explanation. Maybe it’s because diaries are totally gay (and not in the hate-crime sense, but more in the, “I’m fucking old, so in accordance with the ancient vernacular that thirty-year-old relics are wont to employ, gay = lame, but not because I don’t respect the same-sex anal” sense).

My job has been murdering me. I often think about killing myself. Claire hates it when I say that, but I think she should cut me some slack because I’m too stupid to articulate the sentiment any other way. Suicide is no laughing matter, and when I say I want to kill myself, it’s not with the same desperation that motivated my use of the phrase eight years ago. Because back then, I think I actually did want to kill myself. Now, it’s a bit more light-hearted. I basically mean that I wouldn’t mind taking a nap for a month or eighteen years. Because I’m tired dude. Boss be sweatin’ me.

On that note, I’m happy to say that being betrothed is treating me well. I was concerned that I’d freak the fuck out, but it’s been quite settling. I need to exhaustively write about the trip at some point, but for now, I will offer the following advice: don’t stay in Nassau if you want to propose to your lady as the sun sets over the atlantic. The sun doesn’t set over the ocean when you’re on the east side of an island. Waiting another day to see how things work out doesn’t help because, as I’m told, the sun will move from east to west every fucking day of your life. There apparently aren’t any exceptions to this general rule.

We sealed the deal at a restaurant on paradise island. It sounds cheesier than it actually was. Everyone asks me if I got the staff involved in the proposal. I didn't, because I have class. So I asked and Claire accepted. She was happy enough to cry. I think. Happiness and mortification aren't exactly the same thing, but it's hard to be discerning when you're emotionally ignorant. Shortly thereafter, our waiter walked over with our dessert. I was moved as well, but not crying--like Claire--because I have no soul, and in any event, I'm not exactly a pussy. As the waiter asked us if we needed anything else for the evening, I couldn't help but worry that he had surveyed our table, noted Claire's tears, and concluded that I was beating my lady's ass on a regular basis (he hadn't seen the earlier proposal or noted the ring). Which was kind of funny to me when I thought about it later.