03/09/2005 - 11:54 a.m. | drew the letters back on my keyboard

I guess things have become less of a sucking vortex of bile and disgrace, which means I can start writing about them to you. The nice thing about having endured the hell that was last week is that I am now pretty much Scot-free (or is it Scott-free!) from now until spring break. Of course there is the piddling bit about having to attend class and all, but if I work hard to do other things, I can usually prevent any knowledge from getting in whatsoever. Which leaves the rest of the errands I've been putting off since the dawn of time. Yes, the infamous to-do list (as in: "Have you written your grandma that thank you note yet?" "It's on my to-do list." "How about them classical guitar lessons?" "To-do list.") Maybe visit the health center and figure out why I've had the HIV for over a week now. (Good news, people! The shit I cough up is white instead of yellow now! I'll ready the parade crew.) Maybe finally fix my damn bike tire. Maybe just sit around and play RPGolf for seven hours at a time. Maybe.

I don't remember what I said, but here are some important things that happened. On Friday, I finally got fed up with my "sideburns" (read "long gross strands of hair from the side of my head that eventually grow down by my ears to become awful little rattails") covering the ends of my glasses, so I freaked out and lopped like an inch of hair off all around, including some risky business with a mirror to get the back done. I already've got a girlfriend*, I thought, and I can always get it fixed down the road. The nice part is that since my hair is always sort of messy anyway, it doesn't look like I did too bad of a job. I mean, people notice the haircut, but they don't go, "Who went at that thing with a weedwhacker?" And that's all I have sometimes. As soon as I get some money, I'm gonna go ahead and dye these damn roots back again. Vanity before sanity, boiiiiiii.

*Implying that I only need to keep myself physically beautiful only when single. "What about that whole shaggy bangs business freshman and sophomore years then, hmmm?" says That Segment of My Brain Which Uses Memories Against Me. Shut up. So I'm a late bloomer.

Other little errands and things. Turns out we're going to be visiting Ducky in Rolla for the first weekend of spring break, and I decided to throw my car into the running as Official Ride. I even went so far as to clean out all the shit contained within (Some of which dating back to Moving Day this past summer) so as to reveal the sweet, sweet little foldout seat hidden in the very back. Nothing would be smoother than slowly cruising around Shittowne, MO, back hatch open with Ducky screaming drunken obscenities at passerby. Bottle in hand, of course. Style is not at all a problem (The dozens of magnetic ribbons have made sure of that), but there is the tiny issue of my car being a giant tub of shit. But still! Old girl's got me to Kansas and back many a time. I owe her one. Ten.

It was Unofficial St. Patrick's Day on Friday, and according to the people I work with, pretty much the best frickin' day ever of all time. Of course, they are mostly Champaign people and are therefore in fact the reason I blame for my own fake St. Pat's being so crappy. Part of it might have been that both Smacko and Spritz were out of commision, and without them, our little triad has no motivation to get its slant on. After a stupid tiny 99 cent chicken sandwich from KFC, I came back and played my golf game and slowly drained a bottle of wine. By the time nighttime rolled around, I was good and fiesty, but I was also in the minority. I can't remember if I mentioned this, but Kyle recently downloaded the Billboard Top 100 for each year of the 90's. Thus, we've been living in an ever-deepening rut of nostalgia lately. Frankly, what scares me the most is how many of the songs I still know the verses to. I mean, chorus is one thing - those aren't intended to ever go away - but how is it that every word of "Two Princes" by the Spin Doctors is still so firmly entrenched? Just let it go, brain! You don't need it anymore! Anyway, Andy was over (making a life-size replica of the Microsoft Word paperclip assistant out of one of our many phonebooks), and we were all hollering along to whatever bit of wretched came up next on the playlist. My own motivation was to at least try and throw off Spritz's sexxing a little bit, but I am also of the firm belief that is entirely unshakable in that department. Finally, it was decided that we would go out and at least see some parties, it being our duty as college students and whatnot. So they drink some milkshakes or something, and Kyle has a week old stale ass bottle of Boone's Farm, and we head out into the night.

The first party we came upon was in the process of being busted up by the cops. At the next one, we all followed the same strange thought process we all seem to share at these parties: "Man, I'd hit that! Wait - it's Hilary...... Where's Allison?" She was off in the corner, drunk as a poet. She and Shelly got in some sort of idiotic argument about screw earrings, and most of my time was spent trying to get the huge series of wine stains I had apparently made on myself at some point in the evening. "How did I not notice that?" I kept asking myself as I frantically scrubbed. Allison proceeded to dump a cup of water on me. Was girl being playful or malicious? One can only wonder. Meanwhile, as I said, maybe due to the fact that it is sort of a national drinking holiday, we noticed that a lot of Champaign people had leaked into Urbana. How could we tell they were from that side of town, you ask? Well, they were a lot more attractive, for one thing, and a lot less civil, for another. Some might call them downright assholes. Please don't invade our space, beautiful people. They might not be pretty over here, but they are friendly, and they don't make fun of us when we sing our Third Eye Blind. DONT EVER DO THAT I was at a crucial junction point in my head, trying to decide if I actually wanted to verbally tear Stupid Bitch to shreds for insulting us. I mean, of course I wanted to, but then Frat Deluxe would have descended on me, and the question was, could I handle that? Probably not. Then they started grabbing our asses and calling us gay, and I thought, why is it so important to them to ruin the fun of others? Is that the only way they themselves can have fun? The wine had brought out some drunken ethnic rage, which I worked on soothing, for the logical part of me knew I would be massacred in short order. At the same time, the rage tried to convince me of its power. It sounded like a leprechaun. "Come on, lad! Call the big one an asshole! Don't worry.... He takes a swing at you, and you'll black out until you find that ten minutes have passed, and he is dead on the floor. Hardly a scratch on you, my boy!" We shall have to watch out for that one.

Kyle would not let me got to sleep until I promised I would watch 13 Going on 30 sometime in the near future, having passed out during our first attempt to view it. I stumbled upstairs, took off my clothes, and collapsed, not realizing until then that there was still an entire piggy bank's worth of change spilled all over the bed from two day's ago (I paid for Wendy's in quarters and dimes - how sad. And I don't sleep in my bed much). It was cold as hell, but I did not have the energy to move the coins, so I just dealt with it. "My body heat will warm them eventually," was my last thought of the night.

The next morning pennies were all stuck to my thighs and shit, such that every step I took down the stairs led to me shitting out a few cents here and there. I had bigger fish to fry, however. Watching three hours of Saturday morning cartoons, namely. For class, though! For class, man! I had to record me up some commercials for Tuesday's presentation. Also, I was secretly fascinated by the Nickelodeon show "Zoey 101," starring Jamie-Lynn Spears (You'll recall that I interviewed her a while back), so I had to sit in awe of that, too. Off to the library then to work on this presentation. Happily, the three CD's worth of commercials I had recorded didn't seem to work, and there was no convincing my group that we could opt for anything - ANYTHING - besides a Powerpoint presentation. Interpretive dance or puppet theatre, perhaps? Well, fuck it - I'll make my own fun. It would seem Powerpoint has a little system set up to search for lousy clipart, so I added as many unrelated, ridiculous pictures as I could. Example? One slide I made was for this kid I interviewed named Darian. I then put up a picture of Darius Rucker, adding the caption, "Lead singer of 90's pop sensation Hootie & the Blowfish." Professionalism, my tush!

It was a horribly slow day after. Kyle and I sat watching the Bulls some, with a great predominance for the third Austin Powers movie. OH BEHAVE We all sort of really really really hate it, but that doesn't keep us from laughing. Out for bubble tea afterwards. I briefly mourned the death of Ragamuffin, as their smoothies were good and their bubbles terrible, and then Kyle and I got called gay by probably the same Champaign people as the night before. Oh, if I could immolate.

Sunday was beautiful and spent indoors at work, being stalked by the creepy Veterinary Medicine people who came in for the opening of their campaign that day. "Ask for their e-mail address!" they hissed. I just asked for $250 from them; it does not seem they are in a giving mood. At least we had some I-Robot to watch. Why am I the only who screamed "Get off my car!" at the proper time? I thought it was an American institution.

In Microsoft Wordpad, the "undo" function does not have a "redo" counterpart, so I just deleted like a page after this point. Damn it.

Justin and Lisa visited that evening for bingo. We went and got some steak! Well, I had a rather strange regurgitated bleu cheese salad and a way too big mass of cheese fries, but you catch my drift. I haven't seen Justin since Thanksgiving break, so it was good to get down to business. Justin finally returned my machete after three years, so there was much hacking and stabbing. The damn thing won't cut through tree saplings, though, so I dunno how it's going to face up to the zombie threat. Anyway.

I'm really not all that big on the weed-weed, as a) I am too poor for it and b) the only real effect it seems to have on me is a long-term headache (Days and days!) directly proportional to how many times I lit up. Oh - and it makes most movies incomprehensible to me. Finally, I am the average man! But still! It is more of a social thing, and who am I to flout some tradition? So we did, you know, that and then watched this dollar store video that Justin had gotten me for Christmas. "Rodman: World Tour." Apparently basketball dandy Dennis Rodman had his own short-lived show on MTV, and this was the hightlights, possibly the whole thing. Now, perhaps it was my condition, but even the unaffected seemed to agree that this was the trippiest, most nonsensical video they had ever seen. Justin random clips spliced together and short phrases ("stole 50 watches") flashed across the screen. He kissed Kelsey Grammar, and Jenny McCarthy licked his hand. And as I watched this, I decided that I was Dennis Rodman... or rather, that I could be him. I had the potential. There was nothing special about him as a person, and he just kind of said dumb things, and there he was, famous. Getting alll tongued up by a large-breasted pseduo-celebrity. I could do that shit, no problem. Pass the green hair dye! Oh - and the confidence pills. "I would be Rodman tonite!" I thought, ignoring the grammar.

Well, maybe I mixed too many lefts and rights for that, besides! I do not want to get laid, and bingo is filled with uggos. In even sadder news, it appears that Dan got fired - not only that, banned - from Legends! Well, that sucks my nut. I gave him a call to find out the scoop, and I think I heard through the noise that he let some 18-year old girl in, and she got busted. Heh - oops. In honor of him, we designated N-36 (3/6) as Dan's call; we just yell out his name drunkenly over and over again. That should be the greatest honor any man has received. It was a strange evening in general. Bingo was revamped, shorter, no nipple game, and maybe it was just me but the whole thing seemed sort of grim and dark. Ever since the good bingo babes have gone, we have all been left to flounder. At least Smacko was in top form for the night, especially considering that we had to actually go up to his room and physically drag him out to come play with us. The offer of multiple free double-rum and Cokes was enough, I guess. After one of the breaks, he came back from the bathroom and went, "You gotta go take a look in the handicapped stall of the bathroom." "Aw, Jesus - what'd you do, man? Shit all over the walls?" "Better!" He refused to speak of his misdeed directly, however, so one-by-one we all walked down to the john and looked in the stall. To find an entire industrial-sized roll (more?) of toilet paper pulled out into a ridiculously huge pile on the floor. And pissed upon. Another masterpiece. In his own words, Smacko describes the deed: "i wanted to piss on the roll / but couldn't open the thing / so i was like i will just get the roll this way." It is almost poetic, no?

Smacko continued to up the ante, giving Touchdown Kyle's number and telling him it was Shelly's. Kyle has since received four calls from Touchdown, one of which he actually picked up on. Apparently he was quite distressed when Kyle picked up and not Shelly but managed to cover quite well, asking if he could come over... "But but.. I mean you'd be there too, I didn't mean I'd come over and it'd be just her and me." The next logical step in my mind is Kyle leaving the phone out sometime, and a drunken Smacko picking up and giving Touchdown specific directions to our house. And then we will all be stabbed and raped. I hope Kyle has to change his number.

Off to LaBamba for shitty nachos and Smacko repeatedly calling Jevon a dirty Mexican. "Yeah, stuff all that burrito in, you Jarritos-lovin' bitch!" Then he ran off to the bathroom again, and I must admit there is nothing funnier than a tipped over trashcan covered in piss. Meanwhile, Jevon began trying to justify how he was still an uber-Catholic, despite having slept with a majority of the populations of Savannah, GA, and Champaign-Urbana. "Do you actually know the literal translation of the Latin word 'chaste?'" Is that even Latin? Well, apparently, in Jevon's twisted frame-of-reference, it's OK to sleep with anybody and everybody until you get married. Then, just that one person. All other claims (like, you know, the pope) are simply mistranslations. Hmmm - again, it's another one of those strange cases where I've heard about people distorting church canon to fit their own fucked up world view (e.g. "God hates fags") but it's the first time I've ever seen it in action. I thought everyone had learned about rationalization in their intro psych classes and whatnot.

Incidentally, recently seen on a church marquee: "YES JESUS WALKS . . . ON WATER!" Good one, religion.

Back home for some more Rodman, a little HoGro, and eventual passing out. Monday was usual work related nonsense. Gameboy in class, "Family Guy" at the phone place, so I didn't have to pay attention hardly at all. More frantic work on presentation, ironing of outfits (A Study in Pink), etc. I guess the presentation went pretty well. I mean, it was boring as hell, but we also weren't as ripped to shreds by questions as the previous groups were, which I suppose is a good sign. No one really laughed at any of my joke pictures, though, which either means a) I am not as funny as I think or b) the advertising department in general is simply filled to the brim with the most uncreative, uninteresting people in the entire school. As the former simply cannot be true, I guess I'll have to go with the latter. How ironic that they all suck so much at being clever. Oh well - I guess somebody has to be out there making all the bad ads so that the good ones can rule by comparison. The ones that zoom in at different angles on the Dodge Ram while it rotates. I can't wait 'til karma kicks all of your asses.

Cretins!!

Maybe you guys are wondering how the rest of my roommates are doing. Maybe you are the rest of my roommates and want to be written about. This is all wild speculation, and so would any attempt to know what's going on in lives besides my own, but here is a brief recap:

Spritz has become a living episode of "Cheers." This might not end well.

Kyle and Shelly have taken to tanning, so now they both look Mexican.

That's all I've got. Oh - and I guess I got tired of being somewhat disturbed by the occasional passing references to Kyle and Shelly doing anything the least bit sexual (Shelly talking about how she gives head like a champ, etc), so I did the only thing I could and tried to toss it back at them much harder. Yes, it was a good plan. I talk about Shelly sticking a finger up Kyle's butt while she jacks him off, and somehow that is soothing to me. I have no idea how that works.

I won't be soothed,
Nate