Let's see... I've been going out far too much lately, drinking too much, spending too much, staying up too late, and I seem to have roped myself into begrudgingly agreeing to throw some kind of birthday bash next week. And the truth is, I've gotten used to my recent spate of partywhoredom. It's cool to be among the last ones standing as the weaker dominoes fall away, go home for their sensible night's sleep, get that extra bit of studying in -- the end of the night often spawns more silliness than the beginning. I was out last night, and I was surprised and pleased at how many people made it to the 4:30 mark (by that time, the silliness had dissipated and turned to exhaustion, and it was decided that the party had pooped). I tell myself it's good for me, that this new set of friends is just what I need to help me kick off my late twenties; every so often I have to reshuffle my social deck, for the same reason I need to plunge into different musical genres, or move to strange cities, or create a whole new look for myself. I tell myself, after three failed flirtations with antidepressants and mood stabilizers, that alcohol is the best medicine. Doesn't take much. Three or four beers, the odd mixed drink, that's all that's necessary to lift the omnipresent anxiety and dread and get me to the happy special place where everyone (including me) is sparkly, engaging, funny, sexy, k-rad and a half. Inebriation is lovely. Except for being worn out all the time.