Nothing went as planned last night.

Morgan moved into her new apartment. I arrived at her house-warming party bearing my usual tidings of good cheer and the rarer and more welcome six pack of Corona.

So of course, I had to stay and have one with her.

A few of her friends also turned out to be friends of mine from my high school that I hadn't seen in at least a year. They challenged my ability to take shots, and I could not deny them.

We eventually met the downstairs neighbors, the next door neighbors, and the downstairs/nextdoor neighbors. All good people. It was quite a time.

Except that I was supposed to be at a surprise party for my friend at 9:30 pm.

I made it over at about 10:30.

Barely.

My friends were all involved in a frenzied game of flip-cup, which I lost no time in joining.

It gets a bit fuzzy after that, but apparently I took notes:

"Patience. The word echoes through your head. It shimmers for a bit, then, speck by speck, disintegrates. Pieces flutter off into the night like errant butterflies.

Probably just the product of a religious upbringing, the patience thing, I mean. The arrogant assurance that it will all work out in the end."

It was a bit odd, the party was at the house that, until last week, I lived in. The time I would normally have crashed happily onto my bed (after perhaps a bit of blogging) was spent instead desperately seeking a ride home, since (after reading my notes) I realized I was in no condition to drive.

Sometimes it seems that life is like a big game of chess.

And even though I'm perfectly happy where my pieces are, knights and rooks and pawns all hanging out with the king and queen swapping stories and drinking ale, some other player (or players) keep inching forward, setting themselves up. But for what, I don't know. An attack, most likely. But maybe I'm just trying to be drawn out. Or maybe some pawn just wants to chill with my pawns and have a beer and a smoke.

It's all very confusing.

In conclusion: I distrust happiness and contentment, because it may just be an illusion, something to satiate you to keep you from reaching your goal. Like in Labyrinth, where Jennifer Connelly's character finds her old room, and her old dolls and everything, only to discover that it's all in the middle of a garbage heap.

I finally got my tattoo touched up today. I am very happy with it. I should have done it two years ago. I am very happy with it. I know what you're thinking, "How much can you possibly 'touch up' a tattoo of the Bat Symbol? It's not that complicated!"

But it is. All the points look a lot sharper, meaner, leaner. A brave new tattoo for a brave new world.

I took Luis with me to the tattoo parlor.

He doesn't want a tattoo anymore.

He couldn't even look when I was getting it done. And I'm glad he wasn't looking, because it was damn hard for me to keep a smiling face. I don't know what the tattoo artist was doing, but it was hurting me even more than when I first got it done. It was definitely one of those moments where you ask yourself, "Why, why, why am I doing this?"

But it was worth it.

There is a radio station that plays Christmas music continuously through the holiday season. I'm a sucker for Christmas music. I don't know why, and I probably never will. It seems odd, especially to me, that I would like Christmas music so much, particularly since when "Gremlins"came out, a certain Christmas song would always make me think of a pine tree trying to kill me.

I feel like I've been talking about nothing, but the way I see it, some nothing is better than no nothing.