Titled "Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea," it's another collection of her weird experiences. Late night's leading lady is a definite interest of mine - if you've been reading this in the last week, you know that I love reading the works of ladies who like to drink and fuck, and aren't afraid to say so. I'm only two and a half chapters in; I'm already loving it - and the book has barely scratched the surface of her adult life. She's signing in Boston tomorrow, but I have duty, so that's out. This reminds me that when I'm choosing a cable package for my new apartment, I need to ensure that it has not only ESPN and CNN, but E! as well.
Packing for an underway period is a downer. I'd forgotten this, not having done it for ten months, but I'm now reminded that I will shortly be trapped underwater in a long black tube with one hundred and forty other men. It'll only be for a week or so, and it means we'll be done with the shipyard, but I'd rather do without, as was the case on the way up here. Not to be - and I've actually become so valuable to the Submersible Death Trap that I'm getting a mega-fuckjob. I'll tell all once I have a final resolution - but suffice to say this is one shaft that will impact my life after I leave the Navy.