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Tonight could have gone badly. I ought to have been painting. Instead, of course, I let my pal Reuben talk me into accompanying him and some friends into checking out a club that was way too expensive, way too "classy" for the likes of my broke-ass self. After a few hours and a few too many dollars, Reuben has left with his girlfriend. Normally, this act would reek of I-have-a-girlfriend-and-am-now-dissing-you-to-go-home-and-get-some, like it always does. I didn't notice though because I was dancing with some girl from Canada.

At one in the morning, in New York City, I'm watching my friend take reference photos of an anatomically correct, hand-sculpted likeness of a Homo Neanderthalensis. The cleaning guy just went home for the night; tomorrow he'll wake up to get back to work at five or so. And my other friend here is playing computer games and procrastinating away the hour to forestall, like me, a long commute back to his respective burrough. It's late, but not that late. We do this almost every night and every so often, the novelty of our nocturnal routine exhausts itself. Even at its most exhausting though, I can't imagine myself doing anything else.

As of this very moment, tired as I am, life is on the upswing. So far, so good.