03/17/2005 - 2:30 p.m. | suck my jimmy

The next day I remembered something Kyle had drunkenly yelled about last Saturday night. We were all sitting around on the couch in the dark, and I was doing my best to navigate Kyle's laptop so that we could figure out precisely when Kyle and Shelly's relationship had officially begun, and Kyle starts talking about how he makes "500 bucks a month, bitch!" and how that can buy him pretty much anything he wants. I sat thinking about this the next day, and I eventually realize I fucking make more than him in a month, and somehow while he's buying laptops and mp3 players, I'm deciding whether to eat one of my last cans of soup or "wait on it." Of course, Kyle is of the school of thought that credit more or less equals free money for life (just so long as you pay the minimum each month), but still. My dad theorizes that I'm still trying to get back on my feet for that month or two there without any real employment. You need a cushion to be able to buy shit, and I live more or less this insane cycle of have and have-not wherein all of my paychecks are spent with maybe a buck or two left before the next one. Heaven forbid I go and call more than is necessary at the telemarketing place, though. I feel enough like a sinner as it is.

On the plus side, they gave me the most bizarre prize ever the other day. Apparently I made the most money overall for the Student Affairs campaign (I've made about 30 dollars for the school since then), so when it closed, I got a free night in one of the hotel rooms in the Illini Union. They rent them out cheap for students during finals week to have a quiet place to study, but my plans are obviously far more sinister than that. Of course, I can't get my own good name dragged through the mud, so somehow Sean D. Mills will have to acquire a student ID. He was never a student, though. Apparently, he drove down from Carpentersville, tossed his ID on the ground in front of a daycare, and drove straight back. That's how I see it happening.

Last night, Shelly, Spritz, Smacko, and I were going to Brothers (ALWAYSTHEBESTSPECIALSALWAYSTHEMOSTFUN) for 10 cent wings. Personally, I could do without some damn wings, but everyone else was pretty excited. Smacko wanted to throw down a 20. "Gimme 200 wings, bitch!" Unfortunately, when we got there, we learned there was a $3, thus upping the price per wing waaaay over a dime, and we cannot have that sort of lawyer trick. From there, we briefly contemplated going to C.O.'s (Look how well I blend in with the Champaign people!) for Ice Bombs. This, too, fizzled, but I am not all that disappointed to have to drop six shots of fruit-flavored vodka into my body all at once. Instead, I got some lemonade mix! And we tried hard to watch another of Smacko's dollar DVDs: The Swap, starring Robert DeNiro. Excuse me, any old people that read this diary, how did you stand such low-quality movies back in the day? I can't even tell what's going on. Tits, and then he gets smacked in the back of the head. Meanwhile, the TV has been paused on the same scene of same lady for over half a day now.

In Hippie Psych on Monday, I guess we had some sort of assignment where we had to pick either a pro or a can about Champaign-Urbana, find some picture or whatever to illustrate it, and then stick it up on the board. Never prepared for anything at all, I scrawled the most stereotypical, disgusting beerslut I could (vomitting!) and wrote "Champaign people" next to it. Perhaps knowing the teacher would be reading our drawings (and names) aloud, I might have done something a little less offensive, but instead, I once again attempted a Smacko pose. I hope you don't mind me ripping you off, buddy.

Uh, what else? Strange phone calls. I got three or four this morning from a mystery number. The phone was vibrating, and I didn't have to be up for 20 minutes, so I wasn't answering the shit, but later I looked it up, and it's some housewife in Urbana. The biggest news I can find of her is that she had a son at Carle Hospital in 2003. This is not the first time she has called, either. I just refuse to pick up, because I can't imagine anything good coming of it. Meanwhile, a voicemail waiting for me one day: "Hello, my name is blah blah blah, and this is an invitation for Nathan Walsh to attend a special meeting on emergency contraception..." Why me, specifically? I mean, I know my reputation preceeds me, but where on earth could they have gotten my name and number?

Reactions remained mixed to my wagon o' magnetic ribbons. One family I cross the guard for was lovin' it. As the parents came back, they were like, "The ribbon from the back of our Escalade went missing a few days ago. I wonder what happened to it." And I was all like, shrug, innocent. "Well, you can borrow one of mine if you like. I have plenty." But then they were all like, "Naw, we're anti-ribbon, too. Keep up the good work." And then some other lady was all, "Did you buy all of those ribbons?" "Yes." And I get some grins from cute girls (hopefully not grins of derision!) and some glares from just about everybody else. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but it would seem there is some rather high correlation between ribbons and how republican you are. Does this make me liberal? Uh, maybe. The more important question is how can be I against something so universal as not liking cancer or whatever? The same as applies to my distaste for the yellow "Livestrong" bracelets. It's become so much of a trend, that you pretty much have to have ribbons on your car or a bracelet on your wrist if you want to seem P.C. We just... jumped over that border a little while ago, is all.

I'm sorry this entry is so terrible. I just really don't have any stories to tell right now. If this were "Scrubs," I'd slap the back of someone's head and pass the narration on. Unfortunately, it would appear I am the only one with the gumption to write two or more entries a week. With everyone else, it's like, "OK, this time, updates always! Every hour on the hour!" And then after about 3 (This is the number, on average), they stop forever again. So, you'll have to take what little entertainment I can provide. Don't worry, though. It will be a drunken weekend in Rolla, and there will be much to write on!

Well, apparently, it will be one now, as well. Smacko and Shanks just stormed upstairs, and I can't see me being sober for long.