02/11/2004 - 1:30 a.m. | GOMP <3

I think my subconscious is running out of scary things to dream about. Recently, I've dreamt of the terrible ordeals involving joining the ROTC and playing a scary video game. That's just lame, brain.

I've noticed this trend, and it's sort of caught me off guard. All right, of all people, I am the one least likely to make conversation because I don't think I really have anything important to say or that anyone would care. Except time and again I am thrust into the role where I have to either control the conversation myself or just stand in withering, awful silence. Take me and the lady I guard the cross with in the morning. She never makes conversation with me; I have to practically beat it out of her. And yes, I suppose it might be difficult to find conversible (??) topics with a college student, but it's not all that easy trying to come up with stuff for a working mom either. I would much rather hear other people talk, but the more I think about it, the more it's me. Is it because I'm a guy? Is that just one of the rules? Man, I have to get me a copy of them things.

In phonetics the other day, Sinister Harve took up the whole friggin' hour showing us how to use this sound spectrogram computer program. I think he is unaware that we are the start of the computer savvy generation because he was taking a rather condescending - some might say Yousafan - approach. "This is the 'File' menu. Click on the mouse to make it pop up." More rats and sheep brains in lab (making for an interesting smell on my pencil). The more I think about it, the more I want a pet rat of some sort. Well, maybe not a rat, but a small, furry mammal of some sort. I guess rat would be ideal, though, because I could finally institute my plan for a tiny, rodent-sized Chunnel. Sadly enough, I am almost sure I have a diagram of this somewhere.

The rest of the evening was wasted sleeping and then not being able to sleep later, so that I was sleepy the following morning (today). I debated for a very long time whether or not I should go the my Sensory lecture today because it was just going to be review for the exam on Thursday, and nobody has yet made a truly effective review class period. They all try for the Q & A method, and it fails miserably. "So, any questions?" *cricket* Yeah, well, I tried to be good and go, and of course I was punished for my commitment. "So, how do eyes work again?" Fuck you.

Occasionally - at least this is how I, the great theologian, sees it - God likes to send some hilarious fuck-ups down to earth to make things a little more interesting. Give us something to whine about and all. Yesterday, I was all excited to record this Disney Channel movie on my brand new, fully-functional TV tuner card. I programmed it and advance and had messed around with it for a few hours just to make sure it was working fine. Then, while I slept, 7 o'clock rolled around, and God was like, ".... Nah!" and it just decided not to work. That's a weak example, though. More recently, my handlebars have started to come loose from the front tire so that they are tilted nearly 90 degrees from the norm. This makes riding more than a little difficult, but after numerous attempts to repair it, I gave up and pretended it was a rudder and started talking like a pirate to myself. Matey.

I turned in my psych paper and sat through most of the lame, lame class, but apparently I reached the end of my tether. I swear to God, I have the attention span of a bumblebee. "Split into groups to talk about what you'd do if a friend had depressive disorder..." I would walk out of class now, yes. Slow day at the crosswalk today. Actually, I said those very words out loud, and right at the moment, a real life tumbleweed rolled by. I'm serious. I chased it down just to make sure my sense of humor wasn't generating images. To pass the time, I made snowballs and whipped them at a nearby tree. Problem is, my aim isn't too great, and they occasionally whiff in the middle of the road. When I hit a car and cause a chain reaction of explosions, I will leave the country and you can find me under my assumed name, Seamus Aiken. Make note.

Speaking of the British Isles (I guess I spoke of them?), apparently my biological clock has run out. Um, my Biological Clock of Wackiness, I mean (The other one seems to be functioning well; I saw a mom running some errands and pulling her daughter along in a sled, and it made me so happy. I want a little kid to pull around in a sled!). Anyway, I was able to keep up the Scottish accent for pretty much a week on the dot, and now it's begninning to falter. It fades in and out, and I mix and match pronunciations. The game only grows more complicated.

I got Spritz to take me to the post office so I could pick up yet another poster (although not of Avril gasp) and my textbooks. I dunno who the genius was who decided that the demand for Urbana's mail was so high that the post office should be an isolated fortress in the middle of nowhere, but I sure do appreciate it. I'm always vaguely sure of where it is, but I don't think I've ever taken the same way twice, and this does not help me and my landmark navigation (Incidentally, who decided to name their little subdivision "Surbana?" I'll cut you!). Despite my ongoing attempts to convince Spritz to go to Taco Bell, we hit Perkins instead. Sometimes I get free food from people, probably because I am so charming. Or waifish. An old lady was sitting alone at the table next to us, and there was an old guy at the table behind us. Do I have to draw you seniors a diagram? If I were old, I'd try to get so much action. Except, um, how terrifying gross that is. I mean, it's pretty terrifying and gross now, but at least it is based on reason. I can remember the entire piano part to "Great Balls of Fire" from when I was five, and I do not attract women. It makes sense. We pulled a hilarious trick whereby the salt shaker was filled with sugar. I'm sure someone is reeling in angst even as we speak. And when we do inevitably come upon that car with a KAM'S license plate, they shall be shat upon. And rightly so.

I spent most of the evening not moving from my bed, which is how things are pretty much supposed to be. I was sort of worried about what was going down on Valentine's Day because I have neither the need nor the desire to go out and try and get the desperate chicks, but luckily there's an 8 hour "Lizze MacGuire" marathon on. I don't even like the show; it's the accomplishment that sucks me im.

Yousaf wanted to watch a movie, but there was a retarded miscommunication, and it didn't work out, so I made my little art project instead: A free-floating cardboard cutout of Michelle Trachtenberg! I am more and more seriously contemplating removing the Avril from my room, but I'm going to need swanky replacements in Her stead, so art projects will abound. Spritz and I got concurrent bubble tea cravings - after like a six month hiatus and the following conversation: "Where were you?" "Doing math." "You dog! With whom?" "This guy from my math class!" "God, you must be getting desperate!" - so we delved into the Asian Paradise and had our way. I pointed out that someone had altered the one of the names on the employee list on the whiteboard to say "Fartin Martin," possibly changing Spritz's life forever, and I've been trying very hard to get myself to sleep ever since. Why, of all people, would I be the last one asleep? And I don't look entirely right lately. Possibly because I didn't wash today, but I just seem sort of... piqued (which I could not figure out how to spell there for a good long time... another bad sign) or livid or some shit. Anyway, enough of that.