I went out this weekend. I didn't really want to go out. I was quite happy at the thought of staying in and watching "Mad Men" or "Ally McBeal" on DVD and knitting up a storm. Maybe popping some popcorn and enjoying my quiet house. But then someone got it into his head that another friend was stressed and needed a night out and I should plan it, and when someone makes you feel guilty like that--like if you don't do this for your friend then what kind of person are you--so I went out.
I should have stayed home. I drank too much. I called an old friend at 230 in the morning to come and get me even though I could've just as easily (more easily for him) taken a cab. The thought of being in my house alone was suddenly the most vile, horrible thought ever.
So, I didn't go home. I had that friend (the one who woke up and hopped in his car in his pajamas at 230 in the morning on a freezing January morning) drop me off somewhere else.
I shouldn't have gone out...