02/07/2004 - 4:50 a.m. | a life of possibilities

My mom said something interesting to me the other day. She said that it takes a good deal of self-confidence to go around and pretend you have a Scottish accent amongst coworkers and strangers and all the rest of the world exactly like you know what you're doing. How many others would do it? Not very many. So, by comparison, how hard would it be just to go and talk to somebody? Yeah, dunno if you noticed, I got gypped. I have loads of self-confidence in the "ridiculous" category and very little in the "normal social interaction" slot. Right.

The last couple of days haven't been much. Sleep, work, sleep, class, sleep, work, etc. I don't even have time to call it a rut because I am busy either sleeping, working, or going to class. Get busy living or get busy dying, they say. Actually, I don't know who says that; I said it last night, but that's just sort of weird.

Now's an inopportune time to get sick of the Avril posters, isn't it? I don't even know what I could store them in. Besides a dumpster.

Last night at Freer, I ate some old, stale animal crackers I found and tried my best to read about how the eyes work for the third time so far this semester. I am becoming sickeningly familiar with rods and cones and all that bullshit. I also bought a Michelle Trachtenberg poster I have strange designs on. Little kids are pretty cute, I think you'd agree. This adorable little Asian girl was running around last night, attacking the vending machine and roaring like a little monster. Then she giggled when the water from the fountain splashed her face. I watched helplessly as her mother ignored the large "OUT OF ORDER" sign I had posted and started dumping her money in. So much for that. After about 20 minutes of her pressing the same buttons over and over again, she finally left. Sigh of relief. With still more time on my hands, I figured there might be something lost in translation and therefore looked up how to write "out of order" in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean. I then painstakingly wrote out the characters for it. That is, until Kyle showed up and started violently shaking the machine. In the end, between change and items he shook out (let's call them "prizes"), he made over five bucks, I'm sure. And everyone in the locker rooms must have been so confused by the insane crashing sounds.

Is Lock Stock Scottish? If so, movie trend continues. If not, close enough; it's pretty unintelligible. Then fought between my nocturnal nature and common sense until almost 3. Way to go there, king. Oh, you know that awesome shot in movies where they move the camera forward while zooming out at the same time? Yeah, I practiced that in my undies for like twenty minutes.

You know what pisses me off more than anything? Apparently anyway? Yeah, trying to program stuff. Nothing frustrates me more and makes me snippy and reclusive and enraged than watching my little UO guy stumble around retardedly because they coding language doesn't understand my perfect logic. And very often, I am quite a patient person. This, though, just sticks and makes me mad at other things, too. I almost flung my CD player against the wall, and if the trolls came up complaining, I probably would've tried to punch them. Incidentally, new theory about the trolls: All right, so must of the most random, completely insane complaints to the police are made really late at night on weekends when we're doing at all (because we can't because of the FUCKING TROLLS). Anyway, my guess is that on their time off they are down there doing some trippy shit - LSD or whatever - so that they hear things that don't exist. I will mention this to the police the next time it happens. And it inevitably will.

Dank, Yousaf, and I went out for a while, looking for a place quick enough to eat at and make the 7:20 show. Failure all around. We ended up at Fazoli's; Yousaf hated his soup, Dank didn't get enough breadsticks, and my Italian ice gave me crippling stomach death pain for like half an hour. Before we went to see Win a Date with Tad Hamilton (which is hardly worth mentioning other than the fact that we saw it), I played the live action boxing game and enjoyed it way too much. The only ones who possibly enjoyed it more where the little kids who were watching the crazed Scotsman yell and prance about like an idiot. Kate Bosworth is sort of cute (minus bangs), but Topher Grace's character was mostly a bitch. Meanwhile, Dank's pantomime for sex is just amazing. You should really see. An explosion of laughs.

Right about when I left, Elliott called and asked if I wanted to go to some party at the architecture frat. Hell yes, I would. So I meet him and Dhaval and Friedl at ISR where I teach them the finer points of getting the most out of your tuition. God damn right. So, you start to wonder, what's your goal in life? I mean, really. What am I shooting for? Friedl, Elliott, Dhaval - they were all looking to get laid. And I think and I think, and I wonder, "So what do I want then?" I don't really want to get laid, I can say for sure. And I don't want to fake conversation with someone I'm not really interested in for their conversation skills. And I don't want to get drunk - technically, can't really even get drunk. I mean, physically I can, but not emotionally. So why do I like going to parties and shit? See the title, all right. It's just reassuring to know that there are things going around out there, and yes, I usually do tend to just watch them pass by, but that's sort of enough for me. I like having things to think about, not talk about.

The good thing about Elliott is that he calls me about parties and shit whenever Spritz is out for the count (I thought he was going to Jen's this weekend, but she came hear - same difference in my mind. Two plus days with nary the sight of him). The bad thing about Elliott is that he follows me around like a little lost puppy dog. We separated a few times, and he ended up calling me just so he could find me again. It's weird. And he wants a girl so, so bad, but he's not willing to play the game at all. I'm not really willing either, but that's not how I want to meet someone. Still, I offered. If he found anyone he wanted to talk to, I'd go up to them and break the ice; I don't really seem to give a fuck anymore. But I guess he just wants someone to come up to him, and that is not how it works. I thought I was lacking in confidence, but I swear to God his balls are the size of chickpeas. There was a very bizarre ritual that occurred when the DJ played "American Pie;" they formed a big Can-Can circle and altered the lyrics to be about beer. Thank God for "Toxic." It's weird how you start knowing people. I bumped into this one girl from my theatre class (saw her boob incidentally, as this was a Mardi Gras party), and the chubby girl who checks me out in AbPsych was working the bar.

I feel the need to say something philosophical, but obviously, I've got bullshit. Just all these interconnected moments are weird, and I don't know what's coming or what I want to come. It's late, and I'm retarded. My new hobby is referring to people by the random number on their Abercrombie (or whatever) shirt. I called this one guy "58" all night long. "So, how's it goin' with that girl, 58?" Pardon me for having a hurtful sense of humor. I mean, I like the random number on your shirt there. Of course I do.

We bumped into Adam and all of us ended up going back to his frat for a while. I tried to wrestle Andy and was more or less carried about. Funny about making friends, too. This one guy there... fucking can't remember his name... seemed to enjoy me immensely as we listened to techno or whatever. I AM CAPABLE. The one girl Sarah (whom Elliott desperately wanted to get with, although I was the seeming lead candidate har har har) was there amongst all of us dudes, and she kept taking off her clothes. Eventually we stumbled into an ill-fated game of Truth or Dare, and you know nothing's going to come of that but showing your penis to some stranger. And who needs that? But, and this is important, in an informal survery taken by all the guys in the room, I was the hottest. (Also the tannest - interconnected?)Between that and my 8 on hotornot, I've fooled two focus groups so far (males and the internet), which I guess should be some sort of self-confidence boost, but I just sort of think everyone's lying, so ha. Sorry if this all sounds like hubris. I'm just shocked that I'm capable of, well, anything. The least bit positive, I mean.

Apparently being a notary public has its hilarious social value because everyone flipped out when they heard I was one. And then, actually having the stamp on hand, led to antics. I'm pretty sure some people are gonna wake up tomorrow and go, "Who the fuck is Nathan Walsh and why is his name stamped on my hand/neck/forehead/ass/tummy?" Not my idea.

The walk home was sooooo peaceful and bright and nice. And very luckily, La Bamba was still open (some people who had stopped by earlier had it, and I was having mad cravings) so I had my burrito, too. There will probably be more to add tomorrow, but I'm fairly impressed I got this out, so sweet dreams. And of all the songs to have stuck in my head after a whole night of them, why the one about the approaching Venga bus? Why?