By Way Of An Apology

I'm throwing around the word 'sorry' like geek panties at a William Shatner signing in Borders.
Sorry for not calling. Sorry for not turning up. Sorry for not working. Sorry for being unhappy. Sorry for not being sober. The list goes on and so do the apologies.

I'm putting my body through the sharp teeth of the Fallout 3, G & T and Lucky Reds' mincer. The fleshy pulp coming out is pretty much a groaning vessel, battered daily by emotional, mental and physical indiscretions on a daily and routine basis.

I'm dragging around my string of failures far enough to reach the next bar. It's within 45 minutes stumbling, snow ass-smacking distance so the commute to what is becoming a day job isn't too long, to be fair. My co-workers are booze hounds, my office supplies (rashly tidied) G & Ts and my chances of promotion are tied to my pinball score. Which for the curious is miserably circling the 300,000,000 mark.

This may explain my absence. I doesn't explain why I'm doing it. Yet I'm feeling whimsy. Friends help with that.