05/27/2004 - 11:34 a.m. | i'll lick the blood right off your street

Despite repeated claims that I am some sort of psychology major, I really have no idea how the human brain works. Of course, wasn't some philosopher or fortune cookie like, "You are only really wise when you realize how little you truly know"? Sounds like a cop-out to me, but whatever. I have this theory about my brain, though; every night, it works on defragging itself, right? And, in the process, it stumbles on some information or memory that I have not used for a very long time. Inherently some sort of pack rat with everything right down to memories, brain decides that the little bullshit whatever will be stuck at the forefront of consciousness as soon as I wake up, just so the little bit of whatever appears like it still has some use. Hence, I wake up singing this song I learned in second grade. "Misson control, do you read meeeee? I very much hope that you do... Mission control, do you read me? Because I miss talking to yoooooou." And the day is set.

I told Shelly last night that I didn't really think it was worth writing an entry, having only been up for all of 12 hours. But, it wasn't through lack of effort on the part of Spritz or me. I mean, yes, we did still have our hours upon hours of nerdiness, but we followed through on a surprisingly large number of our plans for the evening. Or tried to, I mean. When Spritz came back from... where ever he goes during the day, I distinctly smelled BBQ chips, which is fairly gross when you think about it. However, that did not stop me from eating about seven of them from my secret stash, thus ensuring that I would never want food again for the rest of my life. Fucking mystery spices. Cumin and whatnot. So, Spritz had this craving for gross ass bastardized American food, and I had this craving to show off my vast variety of hipster Buckle clothes, so we went to Applebee's, a.k.a. Shittowne, USA. I dunno, man... everything on the menu made my stomach do a horrid little lurch; Spritz got ribs. And lemon-strawberry is an untapped force... Where was I going with this? We decided to hit up the used video game store for an NES game that could be adequately modified for drinking. Ice Hockey it is! Mostly 'cause there wasn't a damn thing else.

Supply lines have been cut, of course, so we have been making due with the skankiest of liquors. Ay de mi, Jose Cuervo. So we took all the leftover bits of margarita mix we had lying around and made us up a Kool Aid pitcher of purplish-brown death mix. We had ourselves fooled pretty well early on, but a few rounds of Ice Hockey later, and we were not pleased with the results. See, for some sort of equality in our game, person would drink every time their opponent scored (drinks dependent upon the size of the teammate who had scored), and the winner would have to drink the difference in points between him and the loser. Course, I suck at everything, right, so Spritz ended up owing 26 drinks by the end of the game. And this was not some light shit we had, either. The tequila wasn't really the problem (a funny notion, no?); it was more the huge quantities of fake lime and sugar that we had buried said tequila in. Two glasses, and we were both feeling gross and full and not the least bit buzzed. But I digress.

Anyway, the plan was as follows: Get smashed (or rather, Spritz gets smashed, and Nate stands by, drinking just enough so that Spritz doesn't have to consider himself an alcoholic), wander to Green St., hit on girls in bars (poorly - I mean, how else does one do it?), insult ugly people on the streets, and lurch back home, content. Who would have thought the bars would be dead on a fucking Wednesday night in early summer? Yeah, everyone apparently. We made the rounds a couple times, but it was just depressing. Even KAMS - best bar in America, so says Playboy - was as docile and boring as one of Eric Szczesniak's parties. I mean - OOPS. I decided that Spritz need a caucasian mission in life, so I told to start finding out where raves are being held. All night dancing, way too much hugging, and gross skinny people waving about glowsticks and pacifers? Yes, we need to be there.

We came back defeated. I checked up on my nymphos to make sure they were all OK. "So, how're you?" "i wanna fuck" "Neat." And Shelly was feeling strangely paranoid, so she came to the natural source for discussion. I think the reason people come to me for advice is because they assume I am thinking the worst, craziest things possible at all times in all situations - no matter how bad they might be seeing things, I could be seeing it worse. That's almost reassuring. Anyway, I'll tell you what, Spritz and I have some more big plans for today. We're gonna tan, I think, and head over to Bennigan's (oh barf) to blatantly hit on the almost cute hostess that was working there last night when we stopped by. I guess we both decided she was showing just enough of her boobs off that this was the only natural course of events. And I guess we both winked at her, too? If she's not working, we immediately flee to eat in some other dung hole, and then we get ourselves psyched to go out to the Silver Bullet with Dank and Zou. This was decided last night. We don't really want to go to a strip club, but if we are gonna go, it is absolutely required that both Dank and Zou are there with us. And no, I can't explain the logic behind that. We just kept offering to buy them lapdances until they sort of almost agreed to come along. YOU GUYS BEST NOT FLAKE. And then, you know, trip to Shelbyville (OK, prolly not), whatever, and all of a sudden, there are all sorts of adventures to read about. Stay tuned.