12/04/2004 - 2:08 p.m. | may i remind you, i'm under oath now

"You've been out late with that slut again, haven't you?!" MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH. Incidentally, I think it would be really awesome if I got that tattooed upon my forehead. Anyway, I haven't written this week because my life has been all boring meetings and nonstop errands that just don't make for very good storytelling (e.g. "Man, I needed this one type of graphics paper that these special markers won't bleed through, and I had to go to, like, four places to find it and then when I did, it was, like, $15 omg"), and that stuff that might have been OK storytelling last week was somehow not inspiring me to actually sit here and write it. If you can believe that!

Last night was fun, though. Or rather, it was antifun, which is fun for me, and then actual fun later on, which is also fun for me. See, I beat the system by loving both happiness and suffering. Uh, the old semiformal was pretty suck, I think everyone was in agreement about that. Maybe if I had some decent pants (damn pleats!), I might have at least been excited about dressing up, because that is the only distinguishing characteristic of such events, it would seem. Yes, you get drunk, and some people dance, but not nearly enough - but it is all done is nice clothes!! Well, I was perfectly happy paying $12 for the right to pay for drinks whose main characteristics were being small, overpriced, and stronger than most types of varnish. Eventually, we just started buying kiddie cocktails and then spiking them with the other drinks (or the flask of vodka that clever Spritz had brought along for the evening). Someone finally challenged the authority that is Sean D. Mills last night, asking his birthday and shit. Honest to God, I wasn't even sure if I knew, but I trusted my brain and spewed out the first notion I had. Good thing I had somehow unconsciously learned and retained the correct knowledge. But then the lady started gibbering something about her maiden name and parsons, and I was like, "Now, lady, I know my ID doesn't have your maiden name on it. Gimme wristband." Anyway, the bartender wasn't checking wristbands anyway - he was too busy trying to keep up with the massive rush of drunken asshole students trying to get crunk enough to stand one another. And they all look so old! I mean, they still stumble around stupidly and yell like the rest of us, but they look like real grownups doing it, and we just look like some ten year olds who watched Arthur a few too many times. Dudley Moore, not the aardvark.

I guess we were only there a couple of hours (again, twelve bucks well spent), so what did we do? Spritz put goatse up on the lobby's computer and we tried to drink enough to want to dance and then we danced (some of us), but interest was low. And I think our group managed to eat 90% of the meatballs offered up to the party, which I think makes a wonderful statement about our awful, awful lifestyles. I kept trying to get everyone to sing, because I felt more like a member of a cohesive group at those times, rather than some insane loner who is just yelling Third Eye Blind at anyone who happens to walk by.

Kyle was in rare form last night. I dunno if it was because he had actually had some sleep or (as Shelly suggested) if he was nervous about being in a social setting in which he so clearly did not belong, but he was top form obnoxious, the kind that makes me happy without parallel. From the blatant patronization of Shelly's old roommates (how did anyone not notice and fall over laughing?) to the Charles Barkley references to chugging a spiked Orange Crush outside the bookstore we left from (Yeah, school buses! High society! At least perpetuate the myth, please), as well as the usual assortment of faces and tones... Well, how could you not love him? In the e-mail Shelly had forwarded to us earlier about the event, pretty much the unanimous favored line was this advice to the guys about what to wear: "Some sort of nice slacks, a collered shirt, and a tie if you want. Think of it as an interview, only you are trying to get a different position wassup wassup" Of course, Kyle took it upon himself to turn "WASSUP WASSUP" into that evening's catchphrase. And succeeded brilliantly.

Spritz and Amber took a cab to get home early, as did Smacko and Emmy, leaving the young lovers and their old favorite third wheel. I guess what is nice is that they really don't make me feel that way at all, but still, couples are couples for a reason, so obviously they are gonna want some alone time. Missy did not have to worry about me dancing with any of the hot girls at the formal because if there were any, they were already being taken up to rooms and being fucked posthaste. Maybe I'm just not attracted to anyone else... OK, that's obviously not the truth. Still, an awful lot of ick (and Indian girls, same thing), so mostly I just tried to be as near as Imran as possible. Poor Imran - he pretty never sees me when I'm not under some sort of influence, and it is at that point that I simply have to tell him that I think he is some sort of otherworldly cool, like a demigod sent down to earth to atone for something. But I'll try to keep those sentiments under my hat, you know?

Shelly managed to charm the incomprehensible bus driver into dropping us off right in front of our house, sparing us both KAMS and the walk back home. We walked in singing at the top of our lungs, only to be interrupted by the sound of Amber wailing upstairs as Spritz fucked the shit out of her. ROFLMAO Actually, am I not supposed to write that? Shit. Well, honestly. It is just speculation. Maybe he is simply very abusive and likes to beat her. At two second intervals. For fifteen minutes at a time. Once they realized we were home, they quieted down (sort of), and the three of us collapsed on the couch and tried to decide what do, being filled with some middle ground between drunken exhuberance and drunken exhaustion. It was funny, though. In our sort of classy clothes there on the couch, I could totally imagine us a few years in the future, young business professionals in some big city, still friends, me still a third wheel as I will inevitably fuck up any relationship I have. It was a nice thought. It makes all happy and stupid to have good friends.

We lurched up to my room for a while to listen to Bill Cosby's cover of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band," pretty much the funniest thing I've ever heard. He just yells at the top of his lungs in his crazy Cosby voice. I DON REALLY WANNA STOP THE SHOW BUT I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW Then we all crashed on my bed for a while because being under cover is the only way to survive in my room. By now, Kyle was at near mythic proprotions of cleverness, going on these little diatribes in those low Johnny Cash stream of consciousness voice behind whatever me and Shelly were talking about (usually how many boobs are in my room, despite my claims that I hate the shit... "I'm building up a tolerance," I said). I wish I could have recorded the shit, as it was top form stuff, but then, it might have only seemed that way. He went on about the Barry Bonds steroid thing in like three perspectives (and voices) and how his parents both speak exceptionally bad and Star Trek engineers and God knows what else. It was a damn fine routine. We also made something of a good deal. Kyle promised to buy me a Wendy's chicken sandwich on the fourth of every month if I play "World of Warcraft" with him. "But hold on," he said. "It was only $15 a month to begin with. You're saying that a $3 chicken sandwich was all took to make this reasonable? $12 is acceptable, but not $15?" Well... "Or is it more that you like the idea of me having to find time every fourth of the month to take you out to get a chicken sandwich." Bingo. I had Spritz buy my a bottle of bum wine when he went out (Mad Dad 20/20), which we tried passing around, but no one could seem to stomach it very well. Shelly and Kyle went to pass out at about three, and I was planning on writing this entry thereafter, but when I tried to turn on the light, it blew a fuse - a fuse, it would seem, interconnects all computers on the dorkfort as well as my own (Good future knowledge, I should think). While writing may have been within my means, footling about with electricity was not, so I just conked out instead. Now it's about two hours 'til we need to start getting ready (ahem) for the e-mall.com emissaries visiting our humbles premises. This should be equally as good.