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Unfortunately, leisure is not always compatible with a drinking habit like mine. Cadging drinks for an entire evening can be a chore, and usually keeps me on the move. Curious to see how many miles I cover on a typical evening, I plot on a street map the various possible through routes to all my favorite night spots. Using a protractor and compass from a class I once hoped to complete in Euclid produces a scatter diagram resembling, unexpectedly, the geographic profiling of serial killers. Looked at in a certain light, it also suggests the analytic tools used by target marketers, and I can see if they were to canvas serious drinkers like me on a large enough scale they could pinpoint desirable new pub locations that would save us all a lot of legwork. But since the idea smacks uncomfortably of labor and commitment, I stick to my original plan.
It turns out that my residence lies almost equidistant as the crow flies from the seventeen pubs, lounges and beer parlors at which I frequently land in the downtown core. The probability of such a result being random approaches infinity to one, against. And furthermore, as the lack of any measurable correlation between the standard sets of deviations and mine makes clear, I subconsciously chose this flat with certain socio-economic limitations in mind, to lie in a position that would maximize my available resources and opportunities for access to most of the other major drinking holes in the city. So, as far as I can tell, the secret location of the grimy bed sitter where I sleep is in fact a masterpiece of strategic plotting, a fox's dream of the very best cover in which to lie, waiting until this morning's hangover disappears and tomorrow's is ready to begin finding its shape.
the soiled crease
where I live