12/14/2004 - 1103412221 | she showed up at 3

It's been a week since my last entry, and still I don't feel like I have much to write about. I mean, there were finals, and they were adequate, and Missy was here (early!), and that was good, and I dunno what else. I've tricked myself into thinking I'm done for the semester when, in reality, I have four finals coming up. But - tra la la la la - we shall carry on in blissful ignorance.

Here is something I forgot in the last entry: When Booger was freaking out especially bad, I made some aside to Tony like, "I think he needs a little more *sniff sniff*" tweaking my nose like an addict. Coke, get it? Anyway, I remember seeing some guy behind Tony give me a long look, which I thought was strange. Then, during the next break, he comes up to me. Oh swell - another gay man after my ass. "Hey, man - how's it going?" he asks. "You know what you were saying earlier?" Hmm? "About the *spastic snort face*?" What? "You know, the, uh, *tweak sniff sniff*" Dude, I don't have any coke. That was a bit fucked up. I should have tried selling him some powdered sugar for 300 bucks. Lucrative business awaits.

At the end of the lecture in my hearing psych class, the professor did a big dramatic presentation. "Two things your parents said when you came here: 1) Just say NO! And 2) If you can't say no, always use some sort of protection." Turns out he was referring to loud noises. He handed out earplugs to the class. Cute. I did so much work for that class in the final night. 2 quizzes, a paper, and about a million and a half pages of notes. Someone should really appreciate it that. Or admonish me for not starting earlier. Either/or.

On my advertising history final, I knew most of the stuff pretty well... except for the one required question about Ernest Dichter and his contribution to both advertising and the world at large (esp. re: 2nd wave feminism). Not daunted by such silly obstacles as having no idea who he was or what he did, I invented a conclusion about him ("He was a pioneer in the display of female sexuality to the world-at-large") and confidently argued my point with facts that could possibly be real at some point in history. I feel at the very least I should get some points for a convincing lie.

Me and Brian finished our stupid TV spot. It was all sorts of mediocre, but luckily they can't actually penalize us for not being creative in this class. Unlike in the real world, for instance. I really hope he is going into marketing research or something because I do not ever, ever want to see his spots on TV. "Here is a list of redeemable qualities this product has. You should probably buy it." Spellbinding.

Is it bad that I might actually prefer a long distance relationship? Yeah, it probably is. It's not that I'm such a manslut or anything - I'm just so fiercely independent that I start feeling bogged down so easily. OK: God damn, I am an awful person. I mean, I love Missy, and I like it when she is around, but everyone needs downtime, right? I dunno - maybe Kyle and Shelly don't. I'm sort of envious of their relationship. I'm pretty sure it's as much the real deal as I've ever seen in real life, with a few grownup exceptions here and there. You know that episode of "Scrubs" where J.D. and Elliot are dating - the scene at the bowling alley where they are all pissy, and Carla and Turk are so happy? Yeah, I get the Carla/Turk vibe from them. I guess I resolved some of this problem with Mis later on in the weekend maybe. She had just seemed so worrisome the entire time, freaking out about such irrational things and reminding me very much of someone else I used to know, and finally I had to call her on it. For the most part, relationships are supposed to be all about fun at this stage. Girl needs to relax herself and whatnot. I think it helped, but still - am I such a lousy guy that I am going to fuck things up for myself time and again? I hope not. I mean, I feel like there is an element of fate or predestination involved. If I hadn't seen the trailer for the movie Clay Pigeons and fallen in love with whatever the song was at that time - fallen in love with the song and then held it vaguely in my memory for the next five years, even going so far as to actually try and look it up on IMDB years later when I knew about such things, actually looking at the soundtrack on Amazon and trying to play the intriguingly-named "Timebomb" and failing because my computer was such a piece of shit at the time and couldn't handle RealPlayer files, the roving, revolving, barely-controlled chaos prompting me to download Pavement's "No Life Has Singed Her" just because it at least reminded me of what I was looking, finally eventually renting the movie so as to figure the shit out, actually having late girlfriend Lisa there to tell me exactly how sang the song in the credits because she does indeed know that sort of thing, downloading the song, buying the album, buying all the albums, Rhett Miller cancelling his solo tour dates, ending up in St. Louis where I did with who I did with 2 posters in front of a tiny, cute girl in a green tank top (Only I remember what we were both wearing at the time - That has to count for something, right?), the fact that she thought her friend was standing next to her and so tried to grab "her" when Rhett played "The El." That is a long-term lot of circumstances tied up in a lot of parts of my life. I had better not fuck this up so easily.

There was a lot of drunken Mario 3 played, just like always, and some movie watching, a lot of it really, and stupid studying and sleeping. And not sleeping. I saw Evil Dead II for the first time, which was brilliant for its comic gore, if nothing else. Yeah, pretty much nothing else. Still, it's an important concept, one that should maybe be incorporated into my own. Yes, yes - sadly enough, I have started on what appears to be a short story. Since I am not the inventive type I may have led you to believe, it is pretty much my standard formula for anything perfect: "+ zombies" Advertising? + zombies. British romantic comedy? + zombies. We have arrived at the inevitable: My diary. + zombies. You know how at the end of movies, it says the thing like, "Any similarity between characters and situations in this motion picture and real life is coincidental, please don't sue"? More or less, I did the opposite. The story stars all of us, just us in a slightly altered reality where, yeah, there are some zombies. Fictional non-fiction. I was going to post this at first, because I thought it was impressive, but I have too many qualms with it. Humans turn too quickly, and they can't even destroy the threat. Needs improving.

Anyway, the project is keeping me occupied, and maybe I'll do something with it when I finish. Adapt it into a script and film it or make a bonfire, I dunno. I don't really feel I can compete, though, because I have read Smacko's Horace Grant gay erotic fan fiction, and it is the funniest thing imaginable. He captured just the right tone between real fan fiction and over-the-top insanity, and pretty much everyone loves it. When Kyle puts it up, I will of course link. Kyle made some hilarious inept photoshopped pictures of HoGro's head lopped onto some terrible gay dude pix. The cock on the boombox is my favorite. Unfortunately, these were lost when Missy exploded the fuse, so I drew a fairly terrible representation instead. We brought it to bingo on Sunday night, and it made the rounds a lot more than you might think. I believe almost half of it was read over the PA system in excerpts, giving everyone an even more disturbing picture of Team Tourettes. Dan's Dad's Son (Dan) even got his hands on it and, being gay, had some choice comments for Smacko, had he been there (Unfortunately, poor guy was sick and didn't even have the energy to say "When I fucked your mom in the ass" for "I was only 19," let alone stick around the whole time). "You've got to love gay erotic written by an extremely straight man." Damn right, Dan. Our primed position on the bingo floor has allowed us to spark some rather odd relationships with the Legends staff. Dan talks to me quite a bit, and I feel like Tony could almost almost be my friend someday if I weren't such an idiot (He offered me some olives! And I nearly accepted them despite the fact that I hate olives and, more importantly, could not identify them as such at first), and I would probably have a threesome with him and his girlfriend just for her strangely hot reading of the HoGro story. But enough about me! It wasn't that exciting of a last bingo, but it did have sort of a wholesome, bittersweet feeling to it (minus the tales of ass fucking). We didn't win the $120, didn't win much of anything really, but Shanks (first time!) won Full Body Shambo. His prize? A clone of the very monkey Spritz had destroyed only weeks earlier. Already the PCP thing has become an acceptable psedojoke. Sometimes, guys. I am just so happy.

We watched the entire Blade trilogy this weekend. I must say, these movies are not good. But still. What charm they hold over me. Mostly I like it when Blade occasionally smiles. And the ridiculous lines he is sometimes forced to say. "Now you got an explosive device attached to the back of your head." Darn right, Blade. And, of course, Kris Kristofferson is dead-on perfect. "I am a drunken pissy scientist with a gimp leg, God damn it." Of course you are. Missy may not have enjoyed herself as much, especially when watching the first two movies at Jevon and Yousaf's with Boner present. As is apparently blatantly apparent to all around, I am not much impressed by the fellow. He is the type of guy who repeats something funny someone just said seconds earlier in the kind of voice that indicates that repeating it should be pretty God damned funny. Is it? Also, the first evening we met, he seemed hellbent on saying the hi-larious disease name "gonahepasyphilaids" as many times as he could (which is quite a few if one really focuses one's energy on it). Probably he had just learned how to correct pronounce it and was showing off for his strange, mute girlfriend. But enough tearing of new assholes for Booger. The best line in Saved! was "The muffin shop is closed," complete with the snapping shut of legs by big-boobed Jewish chick. I dunno, I guess I expected a little more from the film. Jena Malone was cute (obviously), and I liked the general idea, but I felt more could have been done. Then again, my religious satire would have Catholics eating babies and cutting off their genitals, so maybe I lack subtlety.

Speaking of religion, you know the girl who told me not to eat suckers while crossing the guard? And how I immediately assumed she was crazy religious because of the oh-so sexual implications of my oral fixation? Well, she has proven herself well, by going on an epic campaign to save my soul. The last few days, she hands me a little card every time she passes by. These cards remind me that life before Jesus is an awkward frowny face whereas life after Jesus is a nice smiley one! So on and so forth. Missy was with me the first few times this happened. "How ever did she know I'm not religious?" I asked. Anyway, I'd like to help this girl become a fully-actualized, obnoxious missionary, converting the masses, but I'm not sure how to convince her I've been saved. Religious apparel seems like it might work the best, although puritanical rants every morning in the streets might help.

We watched a lot of BET, which leads to the weird contrast of uncut flopping-ass-filled videos at 2 and Robert Tilton's psychotic ramblings at 3. He is Satan, I am nearly sure of it. Satan who tricks ugly people. He speaks, and I recognize the words he is saying - we all do - and it feels like he has correct sentence structure and everything, but I think back, and he has not made one cohesive, sensical statement, let alone anything that means something, and yet I am strangely compelled to give him $1000 I could not even scrape up if I tried. Unfortunately, his psuedo-James Brown singer man does hold sway over me and can have me spazzing around in ten seconds flat like some sort of crazy faith healer. Man, if church were like that, I would so hit that shit up. More snake handling and laying on of hands, all right? And then there was a two hour Old 97's song and dance fest, which was way too much fun. Everyone drank Missy's spiced rum, and somehow the "spiced" part of it makes everyone smell like a hobo. I attempted to drink a large bottle of some blue fluid called "ZOMBIE" (for obvious reasons), but quickly had to revert to the Mike's Cranberry Lemonade, which I had earlier sworn was the worst thing I had ever had. At least it tasted like fruit asshole bad. ZOMBIE tasted like a bunch punch in the face by 151, and there is nothing joyful about that. Supposedly, the drink was invented as a hangover cure. Personally, I feel it was developed to create a one-on-one hatred of our lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Friday night, post-potato soup, we went to see a concert at Nargile starring some guys Spritz and Kyle knew. They sounded like they took the entirety of the Dave Matthews Band's "Lillywhite Sessions" and crammed it into each song. Yippie. I personally preferred the band before them, but the nice thing about life music is I sort of appreciate it all and don't have to be such a picky bitch as long as I can tilt and sway a little bit. While Missy and I were assaulted by some drunk girl's huge purse and while Smacko developed a new hand signal for "HUGE CLIT," we all looked on as this huge fat guy with curly hair and a "Rock Star" name tag tried to grind up on the bitchy stoners/lesbians/Molly Ringwalds in front of us. Unfortunately, as I said, they were bitchy and made nasty faces at him and yelled until he stormed off, shoving some soccer shirt guy in the process. I was the only one who noticed this, followed by Soccer Guy's flaring rage and his friend's attempts to calm him down. A fight is comng, Nate realized. A drunken fight. And he turned around to watch, soon summoning his friends to join him. Everyone claimed to hate Rock Star, but I sort of enjoyed him a lot. Especialy his drunk cavorting about, and the way he tapped his name tag arrogantly for the stoner girls. "Yes, that's right. I am a rock star."

With Missy gone, I went off into the tundra to try and find some Christmas presents yesterday (as well as lining my own coffer with "World of Warcraft") but I achieved little success. By which I mean no success. So then I just watched sitcoms until I couldn't keep my eyes open. God damn productive life, yes.