02/01/2004 - 3:40 a.m. | and everytime she sneezes, i believe it's love

I'm here, and it's not too late, and it's not like I've got tons else to do, especially since the internet is running suck tonight, but I remain reluctant to write. I'm not sure why that is.

So, the thing is, I don't really like to talk about my flaws. "Ha," you say. "So what would you call the 75% of this diary concerned with that very issue, the rest being secret pandering for a girlfriend, you emo fuck." Good point. But, um, there are still things I don't like to mention. Not secrets or anything - just parts of my personality that I don't like to admit having. Like how hopeful I am - hopeful to the point of, say, desperation. A person gives me a half-glance, and I immediately begin measuring all the finer aspects of it, whether it means anything or not. Of course it doesn't mean anything, you ass. Get over yourself. See? I don't like to talk about it. But believe it or not, I do have this shaky framework of self-confidence, and things like these hold it up, I'm sorry to say. Problem is, this kind of sticks me in the same spot over and over again. I can't test my theories because if they were wrong, everything would come crumbling down. So I count that as a pretty big flaw. That, and I don't know what I want, really. Well, I do, and I don't. Hmm.

It's like, I want to be the type of guy that is confident and an ass and has all sorts of wild adventures with people and does fairly retarded things, and at the same time, I don't want that at all. I want to be good, and maybe that's just because I like the feeling of superiority that comes with it or maybe because it's who I really am? And I'm just confused, and I feel like I'm rationalizing, so forget I said anything.

Woke up at 1:30 today after a dream about Troy Yeager from Serena. Weird how these things go, huh? Spritz and I went out on a series of slow, slow errands. We hit Perkins, and they were especially oafish today, which is saying a lot for them. And everywhere I go, ugly men are hitting on the ugly waitresses. But I guess it's good they know where they belong (Maybe that's my problem?). I devoured my overpriced shrimp basket too fast and then sat around wanting more but not willing to pay for it. Yet. Soon, once I start getting kickback from the guarding of the cross (I'm a Jesuit, see?) and the selling of ebay hypnosis, then I will go the extra mile. Until then, I'll just eat those damn pretzels. Fuckers.

We went to the IUB after that, and while Spritz ran to buy a book, I walked into a vortex of complete retardation. There was only one guy in front of me, and he worked there actually, I guess, but he was buying these shirt, and both he and the checkout lady were just chit-chatting away and folding and refolding the shirts ever so slowly, and he's asking about exactly what percentage he saved, and I step a teensy bit closer to the edge. Then this guy walks up looking for Illini basketball schedules, and he's slow as hell, too. So, he crawls into their attention and makes his request, so then this snail search begins, and the guy in front of me starts digging through the hundreds of scraps of paper in his wallet to see if he has one. Nope. They leave, and it's back to chatting and folding. In a lot of cases, I have a good deal of patience, but in this case, I was halfway to developing some sort of nervous twitch. Anyway, sold $255 worth of books back to be purchased online for like a third of that sum (fuck you, bookstores) and then off to Schnucks for Spritz commodities. Since we were there, I argued, we should probably tan, and though he had some upcoming engagement, he was nice enough to do so, so much love. Sorry if I am a bitch.

I just beat "Silent Hill." Eh. Now what? Once Spritz left, I showered and waited for Kyle and Brytne to get home so we could go see Lost in Translation with Jevon. I might actually have to watch the Oscars this year because I'm really interested in how some of the categories are going to turn out. It's not the usual Gladiator suck fest. I mean, take best actor. Bill Murray was awesome in Translation. I dunno - there was something so subtle and cool about his role that I really liked. Hmmm - let me try and get a handle on it: It was like he was playing a guy who could be all funny and over the top and the life of the party if he wanted to but was sort of too sad to do that - but not quite so sad as to prevent a little from slipping through. That's just... I dunno - so finely-tuned, you know what I mean? How does anyone play that? And then there's Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Carribean as this awesome, flamboyant, really over the top captain. I don't know what I'd pick. Anyway, I really liked the movie. Sad and happy at the same time, which I guess is what I secretly like a lot of the time. Scarlett Johansson was cuter than expected, too. The Perfect Score had me sort of worried.

After cutting through an alley in the underbelly of Champaign (by which I mean KAM'S), we went to Savoy for A&W, but that flopped, so it was off to Steak 'n' Shake for three Frisco Melts and then whatever the hell I was getting. Not strawberry pancakes, that's for sure! I miss fruit a lot of the time, but I don't think I'd eat enough if it were around. Incidentally, does fruit count as carbs? Yes, it would seem so. Thank you, Anne Collins. Speaking of which, part of my Troy Yeager dream involved something about being at the beach and getting messy and being hit on sarcastically, I think, and some crazy machine that is very hard to explain. See, you put a little bottle of something down into the slot, and it fills it with something extra. But I guess the machine was supposed to just eat the shit, so you had to tie string around it to bring it back. Anyway, during this dream, I decided my female pseudonym (and the title of my first novel?) was going to be Alyson Hornner.

Second decision: When I have kids (by which I mean adopt), I will raise them in Scotland until they are old enough to go to school, at which point we'll return to the States. The idea is that they will learn to speak with an accent, and that will give them an edge in life. See? I'm a good dad.

Kyle, Brytne, and I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer when we got home. Kyle had already seen it and kept insisting that Brytne had as well because she was the one who kept suggesting it over and over all summer long, and there was no way he and Yousaf got it alone. But I guess she hadn't. Or goldfish memory strikes again. Anyway, I'm having a really hard time wrapping my mind around the movie. I wish I could simply say it was bad, because there were a lot of stupid, random elements to it, but something holds me back.

I was pretty much ready to sink into my lifeless oblivion for the rest of the night when a drunken Elliot called Spritz and told him about a party up at University Commons. Perhaps sensing my desperation to be out amongst the norms (or because I always, always tag along), Spritz asked if I wanted to go. Turns it out was pretty much Gautum's Party, Part II. Same people were there - Chris from Kenney last semester, drunken kissy girl who fucks with his head, even Jenny Acosta again (whose mom knew we had seen each other - God damned small world). I swear to God I really am part girl ("Well, yes, Nate... the X chromosome") because I just stand around and wait to be noticed. And when someone does try to dance with me, well that fucking blows my mind because I have not reconciled touching girls in my mind as of yet. It seems like the rudest thing possible, ruder even than pouring coffee on the queen. Good to know that boobs still feel roughly the same though. :|

Elliot was in top form on the ride home, screaming insults at pretty much every inanimate object in sight. "Nice car, dickwad! Springfield Avenue? More like DICKHEAD Avenue!" Spritz and I were much enchanted. And I am much sleepy, and there is not much more to tell, so good night.