six-thirty a.m.

I've been up, on a Saturday morning, since 6:30 this morning. 'Twas the only time I could donate plasma.

So last night I beared the craptastical weather (although, it's prime for sledding, I must say.) and drove downtown to a pub known as The Black Rose. Irish, through and through. My friend and his wife invited me down for birthday drinks and some good live music. The music, although a celtic rock of sorts, something of which I'm not supremely adapted to, I dug.
Apparently, they were better back in the day. But who am I to judge? I was a virgin to their shows. I wasn't a virgin to The Black Rose, and I was sorely disappointed when I remembered how much a damn pint was. $5.50, in translation to someone who lives off of each paycheck (not to mention donor money), is equivalent to spending $50. Might as well. Needless to say, ridiculous.

I've been on a crazy Doors kick as of late, and I forgot what it was like to just chill out and listen to a few tunes. I've been in a chill out music stage come to think of it, and it's rather refreshing. Just to close your eyes and give it a listen, a reminisce, and a slight head nod.

I think I'm going to lull myself back to sleep. It's 8:46am, and I have nothing going on until later today. Colleen, a good friend of mine, and this band from Brazil that's been visiting the States, are going to be rolling into town, to pick me up and cart us all off to Lowell for PsychoFest '08 (insert girl scream here for ambiance.). Shall be a good time. For twenty bucks, it better be!