DAY (technically night) FORTY-EIGHT . . . later on than my other entry today, obviously, or possibly into the very beginnings of DAY FORTY-NINE. I don’t have a watch.

Okay, so now I’m at this stupid night club.

It is very loud, and quite hot—as well as stuffy! Woo!—and just stupidly overpriced, especially for a place without Guinness on draft. Or coasters. Or, as far as I can tell, anywhere to sit OR stand that isn’t being occupied by at least two—and occasionally up to two dozen—aggressive idiots.

I suppose, however—from a purely managerial perspective only—that I can kinda see why even the sodas here cost 18 gold apiece: it must be very expensive hiring security guys who are that breathtakingly rude, and who also have necks that abnormally large. In addition, it cannot be cheap to bribe the fire-code people as much as they must be getting bribed in order to jam this freaking many drunk, hormonal, and sweaty nonhumans into a place of this loudness, darkness, and size every Saturday night. And cleaning this place has got to be both tiresome as well as costly, now that I think of it.

Mostly I’m thinking of it just now because my feet keep sticking to the floor. My heart goes out to the guy in charge of getting this place clean in the mornings.

Or more accurately, I suppose, my heart goes out to the guy who has to work for the guy who is in charge of it . . . because if I’ve learned anything in my one-week tenure as an Associate Project Double-Interim Vice Director for the Department of Levels 1 & 2, it’s that the job of actually scrubbing stuff pays WAY less than the job of telling someone else to scrub, and be quick about it, and to do it right this time.

Hmm. That thought actually brought a little smile to my face.

Yes, I do quite like being in charge, I’ve noticed. I grow more evil by the day, it seems. Or night. Whatever.

Anyway, I’ve barricaded myself in the men’s room to write.

I know. It probably seems pretty “uncool” of me to be jotting down my thoughts about the failures of polite society, the tragic rarity of Guinness, and the systemic inequalities inherent in capitalistic society in my diary, locked in the bathroom, while a bunch of my idiot friends drink heavily, dance to hard-house/dub-step remixes of Top 40 dance hits and make out with each other in drunken and misguided attempts to make each other jealous . . . but, in my defense, these people aren’t actually my friends.

They’re co-workers. Mildly tolerable co-workers who are also in the play I co-wrote with my actual friends, at best. And, in the case of the punk-rock dwarf girl dancing with a balding yeti who is just way, WAY too good at pop-and-locking for me to not hate him, an unrequited crush.

And family: someone got my three idiot nephews in, as well. I have my suspicions that the stupid gnome Wallyworkle they’ve been hanging out with has a side business printing fake IDs. The trio of them, admittedly, are doing a pretty impressive job of recreating the vibe from the “Roxbury Guys” sketch on SNL—specifically the one where Jim Carrey was the guest star—but sadly, it’s in a completely un-ironic and more acne-ridden way.

I’m trying to avoid them, which is not “uncool.” That’s just plain common sense. There’s nothing uncool about common sense.

Oh, and there’s also a familiar face: Shaendralya is here, and looking—in the opinions of my friends, if not mine—quite fetching in what appears to be a tube-top/mini-skirt combo that has been savagely attacked with a razor, go-go boots, and what I would consider a really impressive amount of make-up with sparkles in it. From the way she’s flirting with the bouncers, it also appears that she’s gotten over Sigvald.

Good for her.

Although I will definitely be locking up the door to his old room tonight, as I am not particularly interested in being stabbed this evening; she has been drinking a great many drinks, provided en masse by a staggering number of admirers, in a shocking variety of colors, and seems to me quite heavily armed for a night out on the town. Her hair alone has got, like, sixteen daggers in it . . . and it looks great, in all fairness to her.

Got a lot of … pizazz, I guess. Pep, maybe?

Oomph?

I don’t know a lot about hair. Hers is very complex, and unnaturally bright.

Anyway: my actual friends—that being Jimbo, Princess Leafy, Mister Bliss, General VanO’Shaughnessy Blah-blah-blah #3, and Kyle the evil pseudodragon—are probably fine. When I left for the bathroom, they were having an intense, top-of-their-lungs and more-than-slightly-inebriated argument—over the music, several rounds of shots and more than a little fist-based table-pounding—about “diaper golems”: specifically, whether they could be animated, and how useful they would be, and what CR. Also: the spell requirements, minimum caster level for creation, and base price. My friends are weird.

But they’re doing this rather than making fun of me for not trying to dance with Abliguritia Thundersmasher-Roth or buy her a drink and make “small talk,” so I guess I love them a little bit for that.

And yes, of course Princess Leafirellha is here at the bar. She’s 35. She’s probably the only customer here with a favorite stuffed toy—Nursie Flap-Flap, of course—a binkie and a copy of “Goodnight Moon” in her diaper bag, but as the particularly big-necked door-guy said, it’s valid ID.

Anyway, diaper golems became a topic of conversation—and I subsequently left—after I tried semi-successfully to steer the ongoing debate away from the topics of deeper religious meaning in Pixar movies, the exact words to the “New Justice Team” theme song from the superhero episode of Futurama, and/or who would win in a fight between Princess Celestia and . . . well, anybody, actually.

These are stupid arguments, not worth discussing.

Everypony knows that only Batman could beat Princess Celestia, that ridiculous fan-fic Dead-Neck McGee has been writing notwithstanding.

Oh, yeah: Dead-Neck McGee the stupid cleric ghost is also here. I did not invite him.

And now someone large is pounding on the door. Time to go get a drink, I think.