11/09/2004 - 8:32 a.m. | first wesleyan church

OK, so I am definitely taking a serious look at my car today (Rather than, say, poking around in there with a soiled butter knife, but God! Who would do that!); things are getting ridiculous. Then again, maybe I won't have to when I start making my $113 million next year!!! [very specific laugh: Wayne Knight in Jurassic Park when he finds out his little embryo transporter is a working can of shaving cream]

[See, this is what is called a "hook" - does it not just make you want to read on and discover the mystery behind my unusual statement. I learned all about "hooks" - and how the eyes work - in college! So you should go *the more you know theme*]

Besides the main problem of being a nuisance to everybody and having to steal cars, bum rides, and skip a few more obligations than I would like to, I have suddenly been initiated into Kyle and Shelly's horrible little world of never knowing where their keys are. Ask me where my keys are, and nine times out of ten, I will immediately say, "Left front belt loop." Or possibly, "Piss off!" But now every morning I come down early and hunt around like a little psychotic pig (Truffles, see?) because, 'though I may have put the key back on the neat little hook, fucker has a tendency to wander into absolutely ludacris places. And then I usually have to wake the two of them up, and that sucks for them and me, and ugh. I dunno - you would think this sort of ADD would be self-curing. I mean, it is an absolutely horrid feeling not knowing where your keys are at, especially when you are running behind, and yet they deal with that phenomenon five, six times a day. You'd think your brain would eventually catch on to the negative reinforcement (This is different from punishment, specifically: "The removal of a negative stimuli" - Psych 100, bitch! *the more you know*) and start coming up with some sort of rigid system to prevent these errors, but nope - a lot of last night was spent scouring the house for God knows where Kyle's keys could be. And then a horribly racist episode of "Sanford and Son" that I may have seen in a past life.

I think it's sort of funny how Chris Jones and I read each other's diaries and like never, ever talk. Instead making weird little aside messages about one another. Oh, Chris... My wacky former roommate. Well, formerly wacky former roommate. Did you always have such confusing, vague thoughts running around in your head? Haha, actually my theory is that you did and you used to just suck too much balls at writing to ever get them out (I proofed his papers, all right? I'm not mean without reason), but that is just cruel of me. Anyway, I think it would be a very interesting project to make a documentary about Christ Jones these days. Actually, I don't even know if it would be a documentary, exactly, but I would want to film it. It would just be me following him around frickin' everywhere in every situation (Hopefully everyone would quickly forget about me and start being candid again), followed by what he wrote in his diary that day. Are there any connections? What happened to lead to this half-mentioned notion of sadness? Well, I think it would be interesting, and if you would like to fund me (Not so much my project needs funding as I do - just enough to have some cereal everyday), you should let me know.

Then again, there is the matter of the 113 million. Both work and class were going very, very uneventfully, but then this guy who comes into the candy store every month or so (eliciting 2 responses from Shelly: 1) You've been there months?! 2) You have all these weird shopping friends?!), and who jokingly tries to trick chocolate-covered gummi bear samples out of me, comes in with his girlfriend. We talk for a little while every time he comes in (Not because I am so social with everyone, but if you catch me in a particularly good mood, people tend to be impressed and remember - too bad it rarely happens, hmmmm?). This time he asked if I go to school. I do. "Parkland?" Everyone assumes we mall mutants are cretins and attend community college, possibly because they are usually right. I explain my semi-impressive field of study, and he seems semi-impressed. So, he starts in on this shpiel: "Well, listen, I've been kind of running this business for a while now, and I'm sort of looking around for five or six clever guys like yourself [Oh, you rake!], and we could really use some people in the areas of advertising and marketing and such. I'm going through a pool of around 50 people, blah blah blah" and then he more or less demands my contact information. Somewhat skeptical (at least he's probably not gay... Maybe just bi), I ask what sort of business specifically, and he makes vague gestures about "moving product" something something. Oh, drugs. I see. He goes on to explain that last year they "moved over a billion dollars of product, with 680 of that coming back to us." I assume he meant 680 million, but thinking back, $680 is a lot funnier. Anyway, I was sort of like, "What the fuck is he talking about? Why is he doing this?" but since I'm sort of intrigued (and since flattery works on me every time - No one knows this, however, because NO ONE HAS EVER TRIED!), I give him my e-mail address. We shake hands, and he leaves. Didn't even buy anything. Strange strange strange. Why would he lie about something so nuts? And then ask for my contact information on top of that? Was that merely to help confirm his tale? If it is all bullshit, I have to at least admire his tenacity, his commitment to his lies. Now, Nate... I should be fair; he might be telling the truth... but I swear that the last time I talked to him, he had a job at the Italian fast food place in Savoy. But fine, whatever. I'll sell your heroin if it makes me a hundred million dollars. Scruples? Fuck your scruples. One does not pass up the foot-in-the-door to be a drug lord.

Today's title is the answer to my riddle: Where does Mr. Belvedere go on Sundays? Today's clever song parody comes in the form: "And I'm peein' in a bottle, baby / Gotta hold it the right way, honey." Good God I am clever!