Of Ham and Egg Omelette.

Forgive the literary laziness entailed by the expression, but I find myself caught between a rock and a hard place.

As much as I would like to say that the hard place really isn’t all that hard and unyielding, the stone surface I find myself backed against is two inches away from tearing gaping holes into my naked skin with serrated granite spikes, and grinding away flesh with its unforgiving protrusions. Well, either that or I’m backing up against a Spartan wall of spears; either way brooks certain death and dismemberment.

Dinner with Sarah. Or not.

If awkward was a bell, I’d have a bloody symphonic orchestra playing the coda to my short and tumultuous life – in minor key. Main issue is the fact that her parents are there, which is bloody awkward enough, all things considered. Second is that her friends will be there, some of whom I barely know, and others I’m not entirely certain I want to know, judging from those I’ve met to date. Not dissing her friends, but they’re not exactly ‘my type’ of people.

Don't you just despise dinner parties where you don't know anyone besides the hostess?

Of course I could beg off it. Mel, Char, Marian, Joe, and God-knows-who-else are also having dinner at the Chinese place along Perry Ave at the same time. But not having dinner with Sarah and friends and family is probably just as awkward as having it.

Going of course is probably the more potentially interesting option, not going is certainly the more comfortable, and naturally we’d all prefer to be surrounded by people you know and can be an ass around than persons you don’t. Especially with parents around. I might just need some liquid courage before I head off into the great unknown, although I probably shouldn’t be making an arse of myself like I usually would do, given the amount of alcohol required to make me behave friendlily before strangers.

To go or not to go, that is the question: whether ‘tis nobler to feign a more pressing appointment, or suffer yet the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune awaiting as I dine? Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and forsake sobriety? To die, to sleep, no more. And by a sleep we say to end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that the flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there is the the rub; for in that sleep of death what consequences may yet befall our hero tragic as he shuffles off this mortal coil. This gives us pause, to refuse or accept, thus makes calamity of so long life.

The bard will so kill me right now.