06/28/2004 - 4:56 p.m. | workin' it out again

I'm sure you've been horrified presently - I've not updated in nearly a week. I kept, uh, meaning to, but... well, I'm not sure what. I just felt like it would be the same old thing, and while maybe you can't get enough of it, maybe I can?? It's just a thought. I still wrote, of course - on scraps of paper with ballpoint - and I'll be quoting myself like only we pretentious assmunchers can do properly.

Last time I checked, I was poor. This is still essentially true, but when I did go into work that day, I was finally given two paychecks, and I felt much better about myself. The mystery check is still a mystery, but it's been replaced, so I can begin foolishly squandering funds again. I want that mandolin! The previous night, I stayed up with Yousaf and Kyle to watch the episode of "The Sopranos" with the big-boobed Italian lady. During our ride to Steak 'n' Shake, evidence was presented that a) I already knew a lot more Dashboard than you would think and b) that I should learn more. I'm about five years behind the times, good chance to jump on the bandwagon! I feel we could very nearly start an emo band (first single: "I Don't Have a Girlfriend"), but unfortunately, Something Corporate has already taken the best name in the whole God damn world. Whole, coherent thoughts will not be an issue in this entry. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I worked, but I don't remember very much about that, except that the one day I brought a book along (because the others had been so God awful boring) was the same one I had to refill 600 million boxes of candy. That's fine - I get to use a price gun. About 1 in 5 girls, I will actually flirt with - by which I mean talk to - regardless of how gross or not gross they may actually be. I go by statistics, it seems, not to be swayed by physical or intellectual attributes. If I hadn't been working, I would have gone to Schnucks on Thursday because fucking MERGENS was there, and I would have called my friends but none of them give a flying fuck about the shithead power pop DJ. I'm... trying to remember other details. It's not very easy. I'm growing immensely fond of Nickelback's "Feeling Way Too Damn Good." I think it has real potential to be a redneck anthem. It mentions gravy, I think (at least the way I sing it), and I dunno. "We gotta make love just one last time in the shower..." The drama! I just kind of imagine, like, Levi Kempiak getting down to it and doing his half smile at the end, "I'm feeling way too damn good." Shut up, bigot. A lot of people came into the store - Tara from the Buckle, Yousaf, Zimos, Imran, Ashley and her flock of Abercrombie clones. It was sort of odd. Ashley sort of invited me to come to this picnic they were having on the quad that night, but it was totally one of those invitations that people don't really mean, and I never understood why people do those. I think it was possibly because Imran mentioned out of nowhere that they were having one, so maybe he wanted me to come? I lack in social graces, so I just stay away. I sat with Yousaf and Kyle and mixed gas station coffee and strange foreign beer (ZYWIEC, meaning "More like ass than usual!") for a potent writing combination on the old marketing assignment. At least I think. There is a girl in my marketing class whose legs almost make going worthwhile. Very nearly... but not quite. I actually sketched a little drawing of them. Dear God, the proportions. I hope this is making you jealous!! I returned Lisa's CDs on Thursday - hopefully I will never again be obligated to her, as she is the most aggravating person I can think of (I probably rank highly on her list as well). No doubt this means we are still in love, but that was long ago twisted into some sort of terrible animosity that I don't wish to face again. Horrors!

It's not so much that I care - I just really hate guys named Jordan. And hey, I'm no nihilist. I like to think of myself as more of a tease, really. Which is odd when you think of it. But! You know me, I only like to let secrets trickle out at the last possible moment. Unless they aren't about me, at which point I spread them like jam on bread. Anyway, on Friday, before I went home, I went to Shelbyville to visit one of the nymphos. Actually, I suppose she should finally get a name, hmm? M. Well, Megan really, but her parents really fucked up on the naming, because she neither looks nor acts like a Megan. So M. Anyway, I am never one to take these things lightly, so I've developed an elaborate system to prove that both me and the person on the other end are at least approximately who we say we are. And I brought a knife. This would explain why I was so tired on Friday, yes? Down to Shelbyville, up to Sheridan. Four hour break in between. Being just a little sneaky makes things more fun for me. And I drove through a town called, swear to God, Gays. Honestly, you are setting yourself up for trouble when you have a little sign outside of your village: Gays - 300. I'm trying to keep my bearing here, but Kyle would still be there, passed out on the ground, laughing.

OK, so! I visited Shelbyville and this person, right? Well, unfortunately, I found myself far more charmed by the surrounding inhabitants - specifically the friend named Caitlen who I was specifically warned not to fall in love with, but even Caitlen's bitter goth older sister - than by the actual visitee herself. So kind of a disappointment there, really. We will hide no truths here, though - shallowness does certainly play a role here: The one girl was chubb and the other was soooo pretty, but you'd think that the former would make up for it with a winning personality. Nope. She - she who said that guys liked her because her personality was so different from other girls - was very bizarre and pissy and untalkative and would usually only react to give me the finger. Meanwhile, cute Caitlen (who had drunkenly called me the night before, which was also fun) was all happy and fun and giggly and talkative. Does that make me old-fashioned? It was just disappointing. I mean, honestly, I would hope that by now you'd know I really don't care if I "got some" or not, but I was hoping to make a good friend, and she was kind of a dud. I mean, she doesn't have to be Sunny Funny or anything. You can make fun of me - everyone else did - but they were sort of jovial and nice and outgoing too. Were there warning signs of all of this? Maybe. Anyway, I'm just glad that Caitlen and her sister were there, just because it gave me someone to actually talk to. Any attempts at M were just kind of sent sputtering to the ground. Hmm. Highlights of the visit included a group trip to the County Market where M works ("not helmet" rule in play), sitting out on the porch, and being personally attacked by the youth of Shelbyville. Maybe they already had it pegged that I was a queer, dunno (I am loud?), but these two kids were riding around on bikes, delivering papers, and as he approached Caitlen's house, I joked that he was going to try and pelt me in the face. I was not far off. I watched as he approached and launched the news gracefully towards my head (Amazing talent, that). I ducked in time, but I guess the, uh, war was on. Now ignoring their newsboy duties, the two kids circled the neighborhood and yelled out mostly incomprehensible gibberish that might have been insults. Caitlen, however, did get burned when she called one of them a bitch. "No, you are!" Well, fuck! We can't do shit about that! Finally, one of them worked up the nerve to yell across the street at me, "You're a short nigger!" Doing my best to immediately stifle the laugh, I tried to channel as much of an indignant British aristocrat as possible. The rant was long and I forgot most of it, but I do remember raving all over the street yelling, "We shall have words! We shall have words! How dare you call me a diminutive black person! The family name is besmirched!" M said I was a pussy for not actually going up to the kids and confronting them, but it would not be a great source of pride for me, beating up two 11 year olds. Less still, getting beat up by them.

Certain unalienable truths I need to start owning up to: I want a pretty girl. I could talk and talk about personality, be a hypocrite and say that I hope that others use the same standards to judge me, but no. I am not that good, all right? I am shallow - admittedly shallow now. And! Look at this, OK? I want a skinny pretty girl! I know, I am the worst of everything there is in this world. I am why girls have eating disorders and beauty complexes. I don't care. I'm trying to be honest here. I want one of those generic skinny cute blondish pretty little Abercrombie American Eagle girls that I see walking around the mall with oafs all day long. And I think, "I don't want that! I want substance and personality blah blah blah..." LIES. I am lying. I say that I am better than those jarheads because I am caring and polite and reasonably intelligent and sensitive and funny... but I am JEALOUS! Jealous that I don't have the balls or the guts or whatever crucial part I am missing that prevents me from being the type of guy that can get with that type of girl.

"But Nate," you say. "How would you even know? You never try with anybody!" Good point. If I ever want to jump up a few leagues, I'm going to have to ignore rejection and start acting like I deserve it. Fuck the baseball metaphor I had written! Internally, I know I have this capacity: I am funny and clever and can make conversation if it is really so necessary (mostly because of all the practive I've had with you annoyingly silent people!). SO. I resolve to go forward in time then! Eveeryone else is trapped in a relationship or their own sort of rut (They might not call it "trapped," so I'm doing it for them) and somebody needs to be out doing something! Shelly called me a manslut; maybe she knew what she was talking about. Will I become this self-esteem vampire? I only see this heading in foul directions, but maybe that's what I want. Inches from the Average College Male - it grows more irritating by the second.

If you thought James Van Der Beek was hot in The Rules of Attraction, maybe you might think the same about me. OK, maybe not so much my actual "physical appearance" - or the swigging of Jack straight from the bottle - but maybe the subversive, pissed off vibe? I can have that. But then again, I'm entirely too loud and happy sometimes. I'm all over the fucking place. Forget I said anything.

The weekend? I made it home (had some ice cream), tried to track down parents, failed, came home, found them. I gave them candy - I gave everyone candy this weekend - and we talked. The next day a bunch of family was coming down, so everyone had their one repetitive task for like 6 hours straight. Mom cooked, Dad did dishes, I juiced lemons (and tried to hide in the living room and get in as much VH1 as possible). So, so many lemons. For lemonade and salad dressing and this secret mixed drink and to splash in the face of our enemies. I am a juicing machine! Minus the efficiency! An interesting notion about metrosexuality: OK, so first, straight men are obviously stealing this identity from gay men, but what does that leave the gay men with? Kind of fucks them over, no? And then, this is obviously a fad and will eventually pass, and what will that leave us with? Everyone gross and horrible. Be yourself, I've been told to say. Not that you'd believe it.

The cousins and such came, and I was more or less assaulted, locked in the shed, etc. But, one must show limits, am I right? So when Bridget kept hitting me despite the numerous warnings and threats from her parents, I pretty much had to follow through and fart on her head, right? It's the only thing a real American could have done! She started crying and saying it ruined her hair or something. Meet Ryan Spraetz, dear. Mine don't even smell. All was forgiven, however, once I gave everyone free candy. I got stuck with the candy foam, which jizzes in your mouth and tastes like soap. Actually, maybe it's just cherry-scented soap. Non-toxic is halfway to delicious anyway! We kept cunningly handing out the garlic Jelly Bellies, which everyone is still no doubt tasting today, until Justin came over. I don't make myself typically very approachable, so I just started faking it. Hugs all around!! It was strange. I really do feel like I'm in some point of transition, but that's what everyone says, isn't it? I want to take drugs and dance with girls and tease the fuck out of them and die alone when looks or charm or whatever it is I may have finally give out. To what point am I advancing? is all I wonder. Well, also, what of ping pong shoes? They make shoes just for table tennis, you know, but what features might they have that make them so advantageous? Japan, please send an answer. Thank you.

The next day or so was just pretty much movies over and over again. Justin, Lisa, and I went to Dodgeball. I know I shouldn't have laughed harder the second time, but I did, and I hope it made the 20 other people in the theatre with us extremely awkward. Justin got me the best gift ever - a giant yellow plastic alarm clock from Chairman of the Board. He said it was broken, but it just started randomly ticking at times. It should be fun to bring that into the antique clock shop. "Please make Carrot-Top horrify once again!" We went to Wal-mart afterwards, and I made the first set of true impulse buys in a long, long time - bandanas, these weird portable disposable toothbrush things, and Josie & the Pussycats. The bitch is back! Once they dropped me off (escape from the pit of turkey jerky stench!), I watched Ghost Ship reluctantly, as I don't like Julianna Margulies and figured it would be a shitfest. It was, of course, but some parts of it were very nicely stylized, and I liked the overall concept, if not the cliche horror junk besides the fact. Crash, up for more TV all day long - Adaptation, The Fugitive, VH1 specials, something something. It was a Bum Day. My mom is addicted to "The Surreal Life" on VH1, it would seem. I blame myself. Or maybe it is her fault I liked that stuff to begin with. Forget it. I drove home (the long way, somehow faster?), studied, slept, passed, left, shopped. I'm trying to show my faith in purchasing music, but it's getting harder and harder. I was all psychotic on Thursday because I could not find some CDs. Losing one CD you're really looking for is terrible enough, but anything above that, and I start to go crazy. I can't focus on anything else but finding that CD or thinking about the songs that are on it, making me want to find it some more. So, I was tunnelling through my room or whatever when Kyle comes in to see what the trouble is. "No problem," he says. And this is how I am led into the world of Direct Connect. Whole albums are so easily at my disposal now - it's sick. Luckily, there are still some things obscure enough that I have to buy them, but this is a very bad trend indeed. But good for my wallet, I guess. Huh.

The thing I hate about Swingers is that Jon Favreau finds a girl at the end. It would have been much better if he had both started and ended as a helpless loser. I need some energy so's I can work on my nerd stuff.