11/18/2003 - 12:44 p.m. | moist your eyes

I woke up this morning at around, say, 5, and my eyes were absolutely killing me. They were just so unbelievably dry (the dryness is spreading to the most unusual places, by the way) that I could barely move them. Since sleep no longer seemed like it was going to be an option, I got up and started looking around online for what the problem might be. Apparently, there are only two eye problems in the whole world: pink eye and dry eye syndrome. I've had pink eye before (that's correct - I took poo and stuck it in my eye), and this is nothing like that, and dry eye syndrome is supposed to strike like 60 year old women whose tear ducts are getting weary, not Nate. I tried calling the useful campus hotline Dial-A-Nurse ("24 hours a day!" they boast), but when I called, they were like, "Stay on the line to talk to a nurse," and then it hung up. Asshats.

So I decided to take matters into my own hands. Apparently, putting a wet washcloth on your eyes is supposed to solve, like, pretty much every problem ever. So I tried that for a while - did you know your eyes can be completely wet and yet still very, very dry? BECAUSE THEY CAN. So, enough of this "medical" advice! Nate is gonna take matters into his own hands. I have dry skin around my eyes? Fine, I'll moisturize the sons of bitches. Let me clarify something here: Kyle thought I was putting the moisturizer directly on my eyeball (Once again, the LAS prejudice leaks through... Who's the one who hasn't been able to find his coat for two weeks now?). I was putting it on the skin around my eye. Still, even though I was wise enough not to use the moisturizer with acid in it, I knew it was going to hurt like a motherfucker. So, I put it on the one eye and pretty much fell over and started spazzing on the floor. After a couple minutes, however, it felt better. A lot better. This didn't make it any easier to do on the other eye, however. Spaz spaz spaz. At least I was able to sleep then.

At 10:30, I guess a crowd of girls came in here to look at the apartment. We all heard them giggling, but we're not exactly sure why. It could be the fact that Spritz was sleeping in his boxers with the door wide open. Or possibly the huge pile of shoes in front of his door. Or maybe the boy surrounded by Avril Lavigne posters on all sides (they shut my door, I think). Anyway, strangely enough, they decided not to come back here for the 12:20 showing.

Spritz jinxed me and was gonna leave me here alone in silence, but luckily, I used Bill (the text to speech program, not Conroy) to get me out of it. I am a clever little swallow, I think. Kyle's 99 cent Adi apple juice tastes like Spaghetti-O's. That would be the preservatives.

The reason I am writing this is because I am trying to rewrite my journalism article, and Maggie McFadden's corrections are absolute balls. Why I do not like journalism: the idea of short paragraphs makes me want to kill myself. She divides up paragraphs and quotes in the most insane ways, and she isn't the least bit consistent. My story flowed so well before, and now it's this series of retarded little quotes that makes me look like a cretin. I think in complete thoughts, I make arguments together, I am not a series of fucking sound bytes! I like to give the world some credit, that they would read something that looked really long if they actually liked the writing in it. But noooo - journalism says, "Ya gotta trick 'em!!" This is not the type of writer I am. This is not the type of writer anyone should be. I think I'll just take it up the ass on this one. Kindly suck my nuts, Maggie McFadden. Stop with the sexual perversion, Nate. Good point.