In which Matthew waits up

It's 2:14am. All my class prep is prepared -- through Wednesday. Everything's all set for me to throw myself into polishing the prospectus draft. I've eaten a spinach salad, steak, corn on the cob, half a jar of cornichons, half a big thing of hummus, a quarter bag of blue tortilla chips, meds. I've even cleaned the house a little. I've prepped my course description for next semester. I've watched so much of the late-night no-bleeps Sommore: The Queen Stands Alone comedy special that the jokes are cycling back on themselves. The endless "I'm a PC" ads have given way to male enhancement and girls gone wild. And since 1:15am I've called Ara eight times and texted her twice. I know her show runs late, but she should have been out of the stage door at 11:30 at the latest, and she's got work early tomorrow, and she doesn't really like the show that much, so even if she went out drinking -- she should have called. Color me the worried housewife. Now I've called nine times. I'm assuming she'll stumble in at half past three with someone else's lipstick on her lapel, smelling of Johnnie Walker, and I'll turn to the camera and sing a torch song.

Update, 2:20am: She just walked in. No lipstick (well, no lapel), but definitely smelling of booze. Also, if I see this Brooke Shields Volkswagen ad one more time, everyone dies.