03/28/2004 - 5:28 a.m. | your teeth are not quite touching

That's right, friends! I still care! I still love writin' for you! I'm just saving myself for after marriage, you know? By force or by choice, God only knows. And so begins the two days summary. We all knew I wasn't going to wake up at 8 to go to a job fair to try and get a job at a fucking pet store, so I did not even entertain the thought. Instead I entertained myself with a dream about how Spritz's AIM profile was 53 pages long! Boringest fucking dream ever. I'm trying to think about what we did in the morning (by which I mean 1) but can't recall a single detail, which leads to the obvious conclusion: lines of coke. I think Spritz is terrified of me driving a car, so despite the fact that we are in a rare period where I have a vehicle, he is still my little driver man. We rehit the sickening number of places I got applications from and turned them all in. Even seems annoyed by me when I do this. Explanation? I was even trying to be especially friendly. Strangely enough, my best prospect would appear to be The Buckle, as I have an interview with them on Tuesday. Now there's a strange fit. Attempting to sell others clothes that I cannot even afford to buy myself. That's why I picked it, though. That's why I pick most everything.

We splurged on lunch ($10!) and went to the Olive Garden. The last time he was there, Spritz met this black waiter who was kind of like his own personal stand-up comedian. I got to meet him this time, and he was right. He was pretty funny, I guess, but it was like watching the most stereotypical "white guys are like this / black guys are like this" stand-up routine. Right down to the bad impression of how white people dance (with snaps and shit). He talked about wanting to open his own comedy club (THE HOOD); I hope he gets slightly fresher material by then. Also, it seemed like he might be lonely, as he, uh, gave us both his phone number. What strange luck we have. Too bad I don't know how to play chess, right? Man, when we stopped at the World Market to drop off an ap, I got this soda or something called SOSYO. Raisin and vinegar flavored soda as far as I can reckon. I threw it on the sidewalk.

When we did get back (and it was already like 6 by that point), I worked on the project to remain unmentioned and talked to Lisa a little bit. I've kind of been staying away since I seem to make her mad most times I talked to her, but maybe things have improved some. She invited me to see this band sometime down the road (Enon), but being entirely out of the music scene now, I had no idea who they were. So I downloaded them and have been listening pretty much nonstop, and this is unbelievably boring and I don't know why I'm going on. To reward you, here is something perfect: Lt. Dunbar. I was going to revamp my diary entirely to revolve around this picture, but I couldn't get the applet to work correctly. So fucking stately, he is. Anyway, sometime this summer, I will be making a journey to visit Him and you're welcome to come if you don't mind a 450 mile drive. One way.

In a rare stroke of luck (and boredom... much, much boredom), Spritz was willing to go see another movie, so we went to see The Ladykillers. Actually, our main rationale was that we could probably yell a lot about how Suga Mama's got it goin' on or how there ain't no party like a Suga Mama party (hey hey!), etc. Second night in a row I couldn't play the boxing game, and I'm going into withdrawl, I swear. While we watched the premovie trivia slides and tried to sound all smart and like we hadn't memorized them ("Why, yes - I do believe Stifler's Mountain Dew was tilted differently between takes!"), who should show up to sit directly behind us but the trolls. The fucking trolls. And, ironically enough, they talk during movies. I seriously wanted to call the cops on them, but they already make our lives a lot more hellish than it need be. One good comment from the guy, though. "This makes me want to do a line of coke and drown myself in the bathtub." Us, too, man. The movie was decent, mostly because of Tom Hanks crazy performance. The way he spoke in this was just so entertaining. It would be fun to try and do it all the time, but then I'd be like some fag Allen Hall kid, and I don't need that sort of aggrevation.

We made the mistake of going to the 7:40 show, so by the time we got out, there was still hours and hours of time to kill before sleep could be accepted as a suggestion. I beat my stupid computer game, and it was disappointing and... yeah, I really don't know what else.

Today was another waste of breath, let me tell you. Got up, watched some Wesley Snipes movie. Stupid murder at 1600. Apparently breaking into the White House is not as hard as you would think. And I hate the name Spikings, and they just kept saying it. But, as the story goes, at least Diane Lane has breasts. I keep trying to tell myself it makes things worthwhile, but my doubts grow stronger (see below). Spritz decided we needed tacos, and I am hardly ever one to argue with that, so we attempted to stumble out of the house. Both still in our jammies, me in only one shoe because I couldn't (can't) find the other and Spritz was hassling me to leave, wad of money kind of floating about however. What a beautiful day to waste. Came back, watched The Sure Thing (drunk Cusack is about as good as it gets) and let's not forget this biopic of Will Smith or something, got really ambitious and worked on my one assignment for the break, showered. Oh! Here's a good one. So, I go into the bathroom to shower or whatever, and I see this dark blob on the floor. In at least a mild effort to be neat, I pick it up. Turns out it is a poop ball. OK, where do I go from here? There are only two of us in this place, and while I do not remember leaving a poop ball on the floor, I certainly can't prove I did not either. And yes, I did confirm it was feces first. So! Toss in the terlet and deny, deny, deny.

Michelle came over to play Bubble Bobble (and then Super Bubble Bobble) with Spritz while I compulsively read Spritz's (and possibly my) new hero: Tucker Max. There is a lot to read there, but if you have the time, I recommend it. He's just this hot asshole guy who writes about the series of drunken adventures that make up his life. I would love to give examples, but it would only ruin the surprise. But, briefly: Hockey mascot, beer stand, Shiva. Learn what I'm talking about. :D Anyway, he is so brash and fearless and nuts that you can't help but love him. I still have a long way to slide on that scale, though.

With sore eyes, I did eventually emerge from the room. Still playing Bubble Bobble; what an insane game. Shelly said something about the potion giving you cookies and it made my brain burn, so I figured I'd go with the mouth burn instead. I should have probably told her to cross her legs there, but I couldn't decide if it would make things more or less awkward and just moved somewhere else. I didn't plan on going out with them (or so I say. More than likely was a desperate cry for validation), but it happened, and I would say that it was worth it, seeing as I found (hold on) 52! pennies on the ground near the bus stop! What a humid walk there, and we sort of thought everyone was trying to kill us along the way. Nevermind. That's not going in the direction I intended. Earlier today, Spritz came in frantically and was like, "Dude! I think I found Ecstacy in my room!" He hands me a little white pill with an "E" on it. More than likely, I think afterwards, it is probably some old Excedrin, but I figure it'll be worth a kick or two if it's not, so I immediately pop it. No feeling of well being yet. I tried to be fascinated by the light or my hands or whatever, but apparently the placebo effect doesn't work like that.

I'll tell you what, if I didn't know any better, I would swear to God that I am gay. I just CAN NOT approach a girl, and it's getting harder and harder to understand why. I mean, less social anxiety, right, and self-confidence is at least relatively high, and I don't think I really fear rejection because I've sort of come to terms with thinking of my life as a long series of rejections either way so what does it matter, and I see other guys just go up and start grinding away like it's nothing doing (sometimes even welcomed! sometimes I even have the feeling it would be welcomed by me especially) and yet... I refrain. For the most part, that's OK. Spritz, Shelly, and I danced in our little triangle, and it was OK. I mean, dancing with Michelle is hilariously weird - once again, like dancing with your sister or something - but that's to be expected. But sometimes Spritz goes off with someone or Michelle with someone, and then what do I do? I try to scoot off to the side unobtrusively, but I have a feeling it never works because Spritz usually tries to drag me out to dance with him (and boy, if that's not the straightest thing in the world!) or they both come over or whatever, and I feel bad. It would be so easy to just try and ask someone to dance, not even just get up on them because whatever happens, I will always think that rude. I mean, even Chicken Mick (whose name would make sense if you saw her) was giving me the eye some before Spritz latched onto her [Actually, if you must know, Chicken Mick is the same girl who was checking me out on 1/24], and I liked the no-butt Asian girl that Spritz attemped to move in on and thought maybe I could give it a try. She kept mocking the other dancers. One guy seriously deserved that. He was so over the top I can't even believe it. Confidence that I couldn't even begin to fathom. It's like this constant cycle of excuses. Maybe I do fear what could happen. I'm not even sure what that means. Anyway, we were under black lights, and there were some weird spots on my jeans, and you're all like, "HOHO! Know what that means!" except they were like on my left kneepit and across this backwards diagonal by the left pocket. The raver songs made me the happiest because they are the worst. But that's how it works, isn't it? I have to keep my mind off of what I am doing when I dance because otherwise it does sink in that I am doing what I think I'm doing, and I am not NOT good at it AT ALL (in fact I am distinctly bad at it!), and I just start cracking up, and people think I'm crazy.

And hello, it's the birds!