01/11/2005 - 3:29 p.m. | my shadow's the only one that walks beside me

Missy's coming tomorrow, and we know that we will mean no writing for x number of days, so if we're ever going to get out of the hole, I'ma have to start banging these out, all right?

The last few days were about as uneventful as you'd come to expect, excepting a few points of interest here and there. As predicted, I was mostly alone all weekend, which is fine. I watched movies. Personally, I don't see why Taxi Driver is supposed to be so freaking good... except for the Sleeve Gun Launch-O-Matic. That's what I like about old movies and Victorian literature - they always throw in some little insane detail with such nonchalance (e.g. "knife-gun") that I can't help but focus entirely on it. Travis, man, if you somehow can make an awesome rocket-powered gun launcher out of a drawer and some shit, you don't need to be driving no taxi, seeing no scum of the earth and going nuts. Naw, man. Make robots!! But, what do I know about movies anyway?

At 3 am on Saturday night, Ducky drunk dialed me. Doesn't one usually drunk dial the opposite sex? Just a thought. Anyway, so he calls and proceeds to spend the next 90 minutes naming all the packaged food in the kitchen of his fraternity. And then what ingredients they contain. So if any of you were ever really curious what really goes into seasoning salt, I am your guy. Actually, Ducky's choice might have been a sound one. I can't imagine too many people would sit there and listen to him rattle off different brands of corn bread and nacho cheese, but I was in absolute hysterics the whole time. Each time he stumbled upon a new cache of some hidden product to name for me, I'd crack up again. "Seriously, dude, shouldn't you be trying to get some fat chick to blow you or something?" The only part of the phone call I didn't enjoy - and this is always a constant of drunken telephoning - was the passing of the phone to drunken strangers. There seems to be some misconception that I want to talk to these unknowns. This is not the case. But somehow, Ducky's phone was tossed into a huge crowd and was passed around three or four times, each new caller forcing me to explain that I was Deuce's (He is not Ducky there, I am afraid) friend from Illinois. And then awkward stabs at conversation. "Um, of course I like the Chiefs. How could I not?" The best was some girl supposedly called Kandi, who said she could suck on her own nipples. I replied, "That's not so impressive. I could suck on your own nipples anytime. Pass the phone." She seemed offended. Anyway, I hope this sets some sort of precedent, because it will help me keep tabs on Ducky... and the latest acquisitions of the Sigma Pi food service.

As predicted, Spritz has more or less been wiped from the face of the earth. I saw him for about two minutes on Monday, as he grabbed his toothbrush or whatever to leave for home. Nice seeing you, man. You're missing out on some fine presenting, I might admit.

Kyle and Shelly returned Sunday night, alloting me my good old position as third wheel once again. There has been a desperate struggle to get "Scrubs" episodes off of our computers and onto the TV, but it was looking like a time-consuming process. If I burnt them to DVD as files, Shelly's ghetto-ass APEX player could run them... but only the MPEGs. And the rest of the episodes would take forever to convert (and apparently without sound!) If I tried to make a real DVD, I would have to spend hours making menus and episode commentary and shit... not to mention dealing with snarky goons and Yousaf as I tried to shake them down for info. The other idea was to somehow run a cord... or something to the TV from a computer and do it that way, but none of us had really any idea how. I have all sorts of crazy cords and shit for my TV tuner card, however, so we took a likely one and Shelly tried to pop it into Kyle's computer. Unfortunately, none of us were aware that Kyle's video card (what we plugging into) was essentially dangling loosely on his motherboard. So she pushed and it moved and, with the power actually on at the time, possibly explosions occurred. Kyle struggled to keep his composure. It was strange - I think it was the closest I've ever seen them having a fight. Fitting. Anyway, Kyle's computer was fixed, and clever Shelly came up with a good plan, making the TV her dual-monitor, so to speak, running the episodes off of that. They're a little choppy sometimes, but oh to see JD in 32" glory. We've had a bit of a marathon the last two nights, but it was also a drinking marathon, and that doesn't help too much with the staying awake.

On Monday, I called the alumni donation (telemarketing) place that Brytne works at on campus. My application was rigorous - more or less leaving my name and number on a voicemail line - but I hope to God my 15 seconds of brilliance about why I would be good for this job will be enough. I grow more desperate by the day.

Speaking of which, now comes the question of how desperate I really am. So, I've been offered a job at that video game company in Champaign, modeling for sketch artist classes a couple times a month. Maybe an extra fifty bucks here and there, which would be nice. Catch is, it's nude modeling. LOLOLOLOL. Oh shit! I fell over from laughing so hard as soon as I read that in the e-mail. And if nude modeling weren't absolutely silly enough, it is apparently of vast importance that I do "dynamic poses," full of action or emotion or some shit. I've got a dynamic position for her - give the Todd some love. "Try imagining all the poses you might see in a certain sport," the e-mail helpfully suggests. I just get closer and closer to full-scale prostitution. Sound off on whether or not I should actually do this creepy shit. Also, does anyone have a bathrobe I can borrow?

I bought food yesterday... surprisingly healthy food (sort of) for me. I mean, not the bag of sour Twizzler pieces, but the carrots, right? Ooh - and here's some weird shit for you: They're called "grapples" (gray-pulls). They look and feel like regular old Washington apples, but they smell like artificial grape bubble gum and taste like Concord grape juice. I like them quite a bit, even if they are expensive as eff ($5 for 4 of them). I suspected insane genetic modification or something, and I was all happy (Finally! Flying cars are the logical next step!), but it turns out they just sort of soak regular apples in grape juice for a long time. Perhaps I am being overcharged. I'll distill my own vodka and soak my own apples, thanks so much.

In an effort to get more out of my day, I've been trying to stay up after my morning crossing guard shift, not taking the usual 3 or 4 hour nap. Frankly, I'm not so sure I like it. I'm tired all day, and I want to sleep so early - just like normal people! This bites the big shit. So today I did sleep all day, and I feel all rested. It would seem I am more about quantity than quality when it comes to sleep. My rest really isn't all that restful, as every time I wake up, I'm sweating profusely from my rather unnerving dreams. I took some notes on my most recent one:

"Some sort of tribal vacation retreat in Mayan forest. There is role playing or something, and I am some sort of "chosen one." Were there multiple assassins? This involves trials and possibly Quetzalcoatl (Me: "I will not consort with you, feather snake!") and is very cult-like. A huge crowd of us are in a dumb 3D motion ride - like "Space Shuttle America" and some idiot woman next to me was grabbing the screen. I keep trying to avoid the cult leaders, but my only other option, it seems, is this piggy-faced blonde girl who keeps trying to hit on me. Weird symbols and jumpsuits abound. We chosen ones (there were multiples) kept being assigned tasks, like protecting the crowd from flying shards of glass, but to train, we had to read Thoreau's Walden, possibly my least favorite book of all time. I sat outside with Missy's family, reading the shit, while they all got to go to the carnival. A lot of the dream was devoted to reading nonsense words, which is pretty much how I remember the book anyway. I guess we decide to blow the fuckers off and start driving all of us in a mini-van. There is much talk of horseback riding (which I mean fear) and discussion of who will sleep where. Mr. Barmann thinks he should sleep alone because he only has one sleep shirt, and it smells. Amy jokes that she should sleep naked. I picture this and grimmace. I realize from the green Mt. Dew water tower that we are approaching Indian Beach. I ask if this is the case, and they lie and say no. As elevator music blasts over the radio, I give a tour of the city. There is a huge series of monuments built to Cthulhu. the squid-faced Lovecraftian dark god and various huge white tubes that say "Pittsburg" on them. Why? As we pull the van into some sort of crazy parking carousel (with go karts circling about), I am nearly decapitated by the device. Fine, whatever. Some guy threw a hatchet at me already (Did I block this with a sword?). Suddenly, everyone is gone from the car, and my shoes are stuck in some sort of harnass. I finally untangle them, but am hopelessly lost. I wander into a motel room, which I think may be ours, because our stuff is there, but then I think maybe they just thought it was our room, too. Some ugly Asian girls walk in, and I yell at them to get out of my room. I have a feeling that I am the one invading privacy, however. Christopher Walken enters, telling a black guy with some accent and a filippino about some murder they are going to have to commit. I sneak out quiety, feeling pretty scared and lost. I check my phone, and the battery is nearly dead. Luckily, Missy gets a call in (though it spells her name out as slow as fuck), and we somehow find each other, although we still dunno where everyone else is. I go to the bathroom to pop a zit, and it begins to bleed both red and green, like ketchup colors. Missy comes out of her stall and says something very disconcerting while I sop up the blood. I wake up."

I don't even know where to begin analyzing that one. They aren't even reasonable fears to pick out or anything. It's just twisted insanity. Gotta lay off the opium.

Today's title comes from a Green Day song that I swear I never heard before but somehow woke up on Sunday humming. Then came the three hour search through everything I own to try and find it. Failed. Thank God for Yousaf.