07/24/2004 - 10:26 p.m. | feel us shaking

DISCLAIMER: While I do feel sober enough to write this coherently (Look at my ecexellete tsypign shkils LOLOLOL), the lovely combination of psychological downers and physical uppers - Redbull and vokda, respectively - have greatly increased the chances that I will fly into some philosophical meanderings. Please forgive me. I don't necessary like Ellis' writing either, but I think I still read it because it comes off as pretty true in cases like these. (Source: The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis)

Rising action, falling action, rising action, falling action. I kept repeating that annoyingly for a while tonight. My mom called before I had left for work today (Yes, I still count it as today), asking about the last entry I wrote, specifically what was I on at the time. No appreciation for creative nonfiction, my mother. Pardon me for using Fitz's term there, and pardon me again because now I must stop for a second and see if he has updated his only diary... He hasn't. Moving on, mother (haha) also asked how the stalkers were. "Ever present," I said. Then she asked if I liked any of them... and she hoped not the guy. I am the last of the Walsh line, you know. It could all end with me, so I have to be careful and spread my seed across more than Kyle's bedsheets.

It feels like I've been keeping busy. Yesterday after that psycho entry, I went over to Yousaf's and watched movies. I thought the first 30 minutes or so of Moulin Rouge! were the best thing I've ever seen. I'm sure the drug users in the room would agree with me. It's too bad the movie had to slow down for "plot" and nonsense. If Baz Luhrman could have kept up the sensory explosion (which I think may have actually made me physically dizzy, but don't trust the lush!) for a full two hours, it would probably top my favorite movie lists. As it is, so-so. Eurotrip UNRATED was more wonderful than I remembered, with more cocks this time, which I'm told is a positive thing. And I could most of Matchstick Men again. Damn that Nic Cage - I only want to mock him, and he keeps doing good work. You fuck. Does anyone else think Sam Rockwell is Jewish, nay, the Ultimate Jew? I'm probably in the wrong here, but I think he is how every Jewish person should try to look and/or be. Take notes, Daniel.

My limbs are exhausted (All of them), but we'll get to that in a bit. Ew. OK, my parenthetical aside there might have made it sound like my penis was tired, too, which implies hot sex or masturbation or genital floggings or something, and this is simply not the case! I rescind the comment! I had to work 7 something hours with Jane. There's a joy-and-a-half. Actually, because she is a huge slacker thing, I was alone for a lot of that time, and the night went by sort of quickly. You know me, the old ego vampire. As long as at least a couple girls look like they might be interested, I can live to stalk another night, and a few of them were even pretty hot tonight! I used to say I didn't know how to flirt, but I guess I was wrong, as flirting and being an unequivocable ass are apparently one and the same. Did you know? I never knew. In which case, I am always on!! English logic tells me that "unequivocable" is not a real word. I should say "unequivocal," but that doesn't have enough syllables to satisfy my pretentious ass, so we'll just leave it as is. Anyway, like I was saying, sweet ass, those ladies. Haha, just ignore most of this. I am always terrified that they will be like 15, though, and I'll make an audible erection loss trumpet/racecar noise, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

The stalkers came in, but I'm learning to accept them as part of my life. At least they've toned down the creepiness to a breathable level. And oh man! The wiccan came in with this really hot, non-albino girl, and I asked, "So who's your friend?" The reply? "Oh, she's my sister." Half-a-second beat, swear to God. "Step-sister?" God, I am such a bitch! But seriously, somehow genetics really fucked up. Am I going to Hell? Yes, quite right. I'll tell you something else: Working at the mall is weird. Like it or not, you start to make all of these mall friends, and it doesn't make any damn sense at all. I mean, I even make it a point to stay relatively reclusive, and yet I still know all these different circles of people and half their life stories, and I don't even really like any of them, and it's just ODD. For instance, I know for a fact that there is a whole sect of people who are trying to determine whether I am gay or not. For the one stalker guy who works at Hot Topic, I mean. But apparently they have discussions about this shit, and they possibly send spies over and everything. A weird little sect. The fact that pretty much anyone coming in will see me singing and/or dancing does little to argue the case, but the fact remains, the mall is a weird society unknown to a great many of you. Consider yourselves fortunate.

Consider stop fueling one's self with coffee. Just consider it. I pulled this stuffed owl down off the wall and started doing really lame stand-up with it. "OK, you want to sing? What do you wanna sing, man?" "HOOTie!" And then, incredible biases aside, I decided that since there wasn't much I could do with so much free time, I tried to learn how to juggle. I always feel like I am half a click away from getting it down, but I am still firmly ensconced in the Suck phase. One of my more hilariously depraved chores today was digging through the display of stuffed birds and seeing which ones still chirped when you squeezed them. I had a little chorus of obnoxious sitting around with me, and it kept making me laugh. CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CAW CHIRP CHIRP CAW There were a bunch of them sitting on the treelike display, but even more in the basket below, so I start digging through and find a used sucker. OK, that's mildly disgusting, fine, moving on. Dig some more (CHIRP CHIRP hell) and I find a used piece of gum. OK, that's a little worse. Get to the bottom. Used tampon. I shit you not. I start yelling at Jane. "What a splendid task you have assigned me! Now I must retire to the men's room to wash the menses from my hands!" Am I the only one who thinks things are funny? One of the broken birds had no tags or anything, so I start surverying each customer who came in the store, yelling, "My ornithological knowledge is sorely lacking! Could you please supply me with some aid?! I bet it's a grackle!" Anyway, one lady did know, because she was a psycho about birds, and she sort of frightened me to the core. Birds are messed up, man.

I am seriously in love with the non-engaged Jen at Hot Topic. I would like to have her goth babies, and we could live in darkness. HOT. First things first, though: I have to shave this ratty chin hair off because it's been driving me nuts, and nobody ever gives me time to do the shit. Yes, yes, I know. Takes all of a minute. I don't have time for such waste! Due to Superior Jane's hiring abilities, next week I am scheduled to work 32 freaking hours. Plus some more at Hot Topic. Why not just build a little shack in the back halls of the mall? It would save me valuable commute time.

So the night did finally end, and Spritz called just as I was walking up and said something about what was going to amount to a lame math party with some of Jen's lame math friends from the project she is working on here for the summer! Hell yes we shall be coming along! I will impress them with my knowledge of the cosine! And its uses. So I sat in the dark watching DVDs alone until it was time to leave, fueling my knowledge with the aforementioned Devil's Brew. And we headed on our way.

We saw Jared Lu walking somewhere with some girl, and we were all fairly sure it was Lisa Yung, and though I was wont to say anything about it at the time, I suddenly got very sad. We used to love each other, that girl and I (and buried under piles of circumstance, I'm sure we still do), and we spent practically every waking minute we could together. Now we can't even say hello to one another? It all seems like a weird dream. Lis, you probably don't read this because I am so verbose and obnoxious, but I really am sorry for anything I ever did to mess you up. While I am glad for the time we had together, if it would make you happier right here and now, I would go back and make it so we never dated, even if it meant holding in my feelings and being a basketcase for however long that would've gone on. We also saw... aw, fuck - what is that guy's name? Fucking brain! Respond! Anyway, saw the one guy who is always with the Cutish Nugget Nugget Who Likes Me, who was there as well. She smiled at me, and I smiled back because I secretly like her, too. He he he he!

Anyway, we went up to Jen's place, me making the horrible little buzz noise the elevator in the building is famous for, and met Benny the hamster, who impressed me. We sat there for a while drinking that sarcastic Champagne of Beers and watching what I quickly deemed to be Heartbreakers starring Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jason Lee, Gene Hackman, and

Sigourney Weaver. I was complaining about this to them earlier. I am the human personification of the Internet Movie Database, but my gift is taken for granted. Spritz will never learn who played this or that in whatever, because he knows that I will always know. But what about when I am dead, Spritz?! What about that?! Anyway, I'd never seen the movie before, and maybe it was the toxins, but I could've sworn it was intentionally filmed to look like a movie from the 80's. I'm not sure what gave it that quality, but I felt so, so very wise for having said it. Weirdo.

So, we got the Bulgarian twins that Jen lives with (point-five of whom I think wanted to do me - at least!!) and headed off to this ass party, where ever the hell it was. Actually, my brain firmly insists that it was at First and Daniels, and although I repeated that all night long, I am no closer to understanding what that means. Might as well tell me where the God damn Batcave is, OK? Anyway, it was around this point where I reached the unusual point that only the Power Syrup seems to get me to. OK, so pretty much anyone who has ever taken an introductory psych class has seen that shitty drawing of an iceberg in the textbook where it's like, "The tip is consciousness, but everything below is subconscious!" Fucking great. Anyway, I was now at the point where my subconcious was entirely in control. Meanwhile, the conscious part of my brain - the running commentary part, if you will - the part that you're pretty much reading here all the time, did its best to keep track of the adventures I would be going on, as indicated by earlier fortune cookie of this date. My thought processes were well intact, but they had no more recourse on my actions than a stock ticker has on a... giant robot or something... Man, that's not even a mixed metaphor. That is just a loamy pile of shit! Fuck! Anyway, I could control my actions if I so decided, but how else were we going to see what happened unless I flew around on this illogical autopilot? What facts would there be to discern? What the fudge am I talking about?

So, we got to this unknown location ("First and Daniels!" Thank you, brain) and I made about thirty seconds' worth of effort to mingle. I met this guy named Mat, spelled with one T, which I clearly remember because I kept talking about bathmats and placemats and laundromats and whatever else. He was drinking straight boubon, and I kept asking how it was. He wanted to tell me in great detail, which I thought was half funny and half very very boring. Another guy, Jim, had on a stupid hat and slobber all over his clothes and kind of a Tom Souhas donkey grin, and I liked him very much off the bat. He kept suggesting that we play Taps, to which I kept pantomiming a trumpet and blowing a tune from the corner of my mouth. I don't think anyone even heard my stupid joke. Anyway, I lost interest in all of those people and their lives and drinking and shit because of that damn massage chair. Fuck, I know I hate being touched by human beings, but apparently I am quite all right with cold, hard machinery because that thing was fucking ecstacy! I kind of blindly mashed buttons until it was on knead at high speed and then I just kind of lied there in a puddle, occasionally making an unintended face of pure orgasmic joy. I hope no one noticed. It was that fucking good. It made my eyes unfocus. I must have one.

I sort of felt guilty about hogging such a gift to humanity from all the other people (Man, all they played was like Beatles and bad techno on an iPod - what the shit?!), so I'd occasionally stumble over to Jen and Spritz to see how they were doing. At some point along the evening - I'm not sure how - I got a very deep paper cut or something similar on my right middle finger, and occasionally the pain from it would phase in, and I would laugh and suck on it and wonder how the fuck that happened without me knowing it. I started doing weird bendy gymnastics shit because I was fairly sure one of the point-five twins was watching me, and I know I would be impressed by the weird bendy kid on the floor. I talked to Jen for a while, and maybe I thought she didn't hate me for once, but that could've either been my inflated self-confidence or the fact that she had been drinking at least a little herself. I hope. Yes, she was, because then I remember yelling something at her about Asians not being able to hold their liquor. I hope she didn't think it rude. We tried playing Trivial Pursuit for all of four seconds, but our eyes could not focus so much on the teensy print, so I stumbled back to my massage chair because everyone else seemed too concerned about getting an actual girl to touch them something something. Whatever. Fags. Actually, it was sort of creepy. This one Asian girl kept petting my arm no matter how much I tried to dodge out of her grasp. She eventually "caught on" to what she was doing "accidentally" and then started blatantly hitting on me. I think I said something rude and stumbled off to go pee off the balcony. Apparently even if girls do try making the first move I am not interested. Just another step closer to asexuality.

We were pretty high up at where ever we were ("First and Daniels!"), and all the apartments surrounded this courtyard with a big tree growing up through the middle. I kept thinking how vaguely Asian it seemed, but I appear to have been on some sort of kick at that point, so I doubt I knew what I was talking about. I kept taking laps and looking very far down, and I distinctly remember this extensive performance for Mat where I did this crazy crab dance and talked about how everyone needed the PENIS to rub the VAGINA to induce ORGASM so that everyone would be happy. I said it all gravelly, too. Did we talk about Marlon Brando? Yes, I think we did, because otherwise me getting on me knees and yelling "STELLA" over and over wouldn't make any sense. And this was all based in logic, I can assure you. I might have been pretty fucked up.

Spritz and Jen wanted to leave, and I didn't want to stay there with all those math freaks, so I offered to at least walk out with them, leaving them to their [here I made a crude pantomime] at home. There was apparently some confusion between my inner and outer monologues because I started explaining about this bag of trash I saw and wanted to take, except I was pretty sure it was just a bag of trash and would yield no reward. Nate Walsh, you are so wise. I think they maybe worried that I was going to die or something, but I assured them that I would be fine, where ever I would be going ("Yes, subconscious, where will that be?") and once again wished them well on their [rude pantomime].

Jane said it was 105 out, and Spritz said I should wear a sweater or something, but I thought it was God damn beautiful outside. Of course, I had no idea where I was going exactly, as I was leaving it all up to my subconscious, but occasionally I would see a landmark or streetsign I recognized, and I would be encouraged. "He must know what he's doing." My faith was a touch shaken, however, when I started to find myself in a mysterious ghetto or something. Were there docks? A warehouse? Maybe some factory shit? I remember saying aloud, "Oh, great. Now we're down at the fucking wharf!" Then I corrected myself because we were nowhere near any wharfs. We weren't even in fucking "Star Trek" at all, at which point I laughed because I was pleased I could still make puns. As is detailed in my programming, I quickly ended the Philosopher King Stage 3: Where I can't stop thinking about death. Not that I want to die, specifically, but how I am no doubt going to die someday and how I feel about that. I feel like I do not fear it, but I also feel like I might be lying about that, as I am walking further and further into Mystery Ghetto, and I assume I will be jumped any moment. And assumptions are like fear, right? Except the being jumped part didn't seem so bad... just waiting for it did. Draw any parallels you feel may complicate things.

If we didn't get anywhere soon, I was going to have to take command of my limbs and get us back home, but through an insane series of back alleys and shit, the knowledge of which I feel like I must have been born with, I suddenly ended up right in front of the Highdive. "Good work, self-conscious!" I thought. "I thought I maybe wanted to go here, but you took all the guesswork out!" You know sometimes in movies and shit how they do the one shot where the actor and the camera are on a rolling platform together, and they move the platform around so that it seems as though the actor is gliding where ever he's going to? I felt very much like that as I slid into the door, decided, "This is a ten," paid my cover, and floated to the dance floor.

I had already been giving my subconscious incredible liberties, but once I was fully immersed in the music and the bass and all the icky people (and there were no more cars to worry about), I more or less just shut my eyes and let my legs take me where they wanted to go. I would occasionally take control to stop me from assaulting the large black man as they sometimes seemed to want to do, but mostly it was an awesome adventure through time, me floating throughout. The girls, they thought I was flirting! Ha ha, no! Apparently my deepest desire is to merely circle about you like a vulture! Enjoy! And while I was certainly more subdued than some, I don't think I've ever danced more like an ass in my life. My legs had to move to the beat with tiny, bizarre flailings and shit, rotations and slides, arms grooving like some sort of idiot raver. "Whatever you say, body," I thought. Surprisingly, 80's Chick was there again. We both caught sight of each other and resumed dancing, which I thought was absolutely awesome, except for maybe the Indian dude who kept dancing near me. Not so much because it seemed to be me he was focused on - I can deal with that. Motherfucker smelled like ass. "That's a spicy meat-a-ball," I yelled, but I don't believe anyone heard me. I think 80's whatever boyfriend was jealous of my moves or something because he started getting all protective. Fine, whatever. Plenty more fish in the sea. Gross gross townie fish. I think there was a sort of bachelorette party there because some lady was wearing a veil with a dildo in it. Bridesmaids everywhere, trying to touch me, and it appeared they all came from the same selected gene pool of ugly. Idiot DJ tried to put on a mix of Radiohead, which confused everyone and made them stop dancing (Nate Walsh, exception). Last hour or so was spent in the Great Flirtation with this one girl (Was she pretty? Well, she was thin, and that's all that appears to matter to me. I am the cause of eating disorders). All these horrible acne-riddled Koreans and guys with goatees kept trying to grind her, and I knew she wanted me crotch smashing into her rear, but we still really aren't comfortable with that sort of thing, so my legs just kept me looping around her like an idiot. "Feets don't fail me now," I actually thought. But then a different part of me responded, "How fucking dumb. Your subconscious is just as chicken shit as you are." It's crowded up there. Finally, I took over muscle control for a few and headed in her direction, and we danced or whatever. It was weird, though, because this gay guy kept grabbing the two of us and mashing us closer together with his huge arms in his muscle shirt. Did he have a crown? Why do I think he had a crown? And then, soon enough, music ends, and I start sliding again, back out the door before anyone could notice I was gone. Even if they wanted to, I mean.

It was a long back on University from the Highdive, but it gave me some time to sober up, shake over the tinnitus, and return to Stage 4, Philosopher King: The Meaning of It All. Yeah, I have no idea what that meaning is yet, and mostly I just pondered on what I was going to do with me life. What I was going to do with my life and sidewalks. Who puts those in? Am I going to have to do that someday? I mean, someone had hopes and dreams and then they prolly all got shat upon for sidewalks instead. And what am I supposed to be doing? Getting a girl, earning money, buying things, absorbing media, creating it? It just felt a little cheap, is all. So I started pissing on a side street as I ambled. Then I followed the very jerky line of piss back to my main path, mumbling something about the trail of breadcrumbs. I am the coolest loner there is, and that alone seems reason enough to stay on this planet for a long, long time. So good. I went on for quite some time about how out of the blue I started developing a few well-picked "moral ambiguities" to make any situation a little more interesting and what do you know? I was nearly back home! My feets got a nose for direction. Shut up. I've been writing this ever since, and now - hours and hours later - I'm finally beginning to slow down. I'll leave this for the square to proofread tomorrow. I only have to work 4 hours tomorrow; these days, that's tantamount to a vacation.