If a cow ever got the chance...

Well, I just peeled most of the label off a bottle of Jim Beam Black, (and consumed a few shots from it) while talking to an author on the phone. (It was more difficult than you'd think; they have some serious glue on those things.) Yes, she has my home number. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I wish she wouldn't e-mail me in all caps asking "ARE YOU HOME TONIGHT???", which she perceives as adding important emphasis, to show that she really wants to converse with me, and I perceive as flat-out rude. I wish I wasn't the only one at The Company who returns her phone calls, meaning that I can do nothing whatsoever about the problems she calls me about (most of them have to do with her *mazon.com listing). I wish we didn't have this complex and secretive relationship involving various unethical business transactions (no, I didn't sleep with her, but I might as well have, given all the fallout...).

On the other hand, she is undeniably witty and charming. Talking to her reminds me that there are other things than work and sleep and the four people who constitute my social circle. She knows various publishing big-shots and frequently offers to get me jobs with them--this will not happen, but I like hearing all the literary gossip. She is very much in this world, which I have not been lately. And very, very smart. I do like her. I just don't want to have any sort of business relationship with her, because she's not stable enough for me to be sure that it all won't go horribly, horribly wrong.

I wish I could be less vague, but I think this is all you need to know about my evening. Maybe someday I'll tell you the whole story. Meanwhile, I'm drunk and hungry and getting that dehydration headache. Time to call DnmnR / Outgrabe / the boyfriend, who will tell me about their DVD player / roommates / cardamom liqueur, respectively. Later.

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