04/02/2005 - 5:05 p.m. | i don't know what it is so get me over

We will resist the urge to tell you about our wine-induced dreams last night, especially the one wherein we kissed our sister. Or something very near to a sister (as I am an only child), such as a sister-in-law or maybe an adopted sister or maybe just a sister anyway. My brain tends to come up with excuses when it is doing something it shouldn't. Someone taboo, though, I know. For instance, in this dream, Sister originally had curly long brown hair (like springy coils curly) and more than a little fake tan on but brain sorted it out such that these attributes were altered even as Sister remained the same person. Oh, who am I kidding? I have to tell you about this dream, don't I? I was in maybe high school or something, it was lunchtime, and I was sitting with a bunch of new friends. They kept sharing bites of their Taco Bell dishes with me, but I was in conflict as to stay with them or go over to the table with my current friends. In the end, the bell rang, and we were all very late to class, so we ran. I followed this one guy ("Chris") as he went to talk to his bearded professor, and I kept running into this person I was strangely drawn to. I eventually decided this was sister. She was wearing a red evening gown and heels and was in the same class I was, so we were both very late. We took off running together, but she must have tripped over four or five separate things along the way (despite my help). At one of these crucial junctures, he dress somehow fell off, revealing the weir d lace corset underneath. And thus began the attraction. In the actual class, some of the guys were hassling her, and things begin to get a little fuzzy. Point is, we ended up kidnapping them together and dropping them off at various parts throughout the north (Wisconsin and such). That completed, she and I were driving back together in the dark, and it was kind of romantic. She gave me a kiss for my help, and there was an awkward pause. She asks, "Maybe... just this one time... we could try a real kiss?" And we did. And it was glorious. Her tongue was like nothing I had felt before, like eel or something, and I was profoundly disturbed with my joy. She dropped me off back at home, and I couldn't sleep, so I wandered campus, digging around in the grass for the small change I was strangely adept at spotting. It was past three, nearly 4, and things were quiet... except at the frat houses. One had lights and bass blaring, and at the other they sprayed me with a hose. I would have fine with that, but then this frat guy called me a "flannel wearing ponytail asshole," and that is apparently too far. "You're just an asshole period," I said, and he threw his gloves on the ground (He was wearing gloves) and punched me in the head.

We call this latent guilt, I think.

It would appear I have severed about all ties to family, both extended and close. My parents both expressed their disappointment to me, my mom specifically pointing out that this would probably ruin our relationship. "What relationship?" I wanted to say, but who am I to drive the final nail? They pointed out how selfish I was, how I wouldn't take time out of my pathetic life to do the things that make other people happy, that I don't care about anyone besides myself really. And I couldn't really argue with them. It isn't really hard to make a gesture now and then, it really isn't, but I guess I can't really grasp the concept that there are people living and dying out there by my antics. I know my grandma says she loves me, but isn't that only because she is supposed to? And doesn't she only want to hear from me because that's what you're supposed to want from your grandchildren? See, I guess this stems from the same particularly-skewed worldview as my idea that people only go out and fly kites in spring because they feel like it is something they should be doing. And maybe that's a fucked-up worldview or maybe I'm the only one who's being honest about it, you'd have to tell me. Point is, something is probably wrong. In fact, I know it is. When Mom called back to try and get some explanation out of me, she seemed all worried that I might end up doing something crazy, get real hosed or hurt myself or break things or something. And while the former might be a possibility, it wasn't for the reasons she was thinking. I think she thought what she had said would have really hurt my feelings, but mostly it just made me a little contemplative. Missy called about ten minutes later, and I told her the stories from last night like nothing had happened.

And thus, the larger issue comes back around: My emotions are dulled to the point of flatlining, and while it may be that's just the person I've turned into, there's a much better chance the medication is doing too good of a job. I don't feel very much anymore, which means I don't care about very much either. And I've known this has been happening for some time, and I've suspected it was the meds for just as long, but now I'm scared about what to do. True, all they really did was transfer one sort of crazy for another one (and delay my orgasms for decades rather than hours), but this defense mechanism feels infinitely more tolerable. I hated how I felt before - depressed all the time, crying for no reason, unable to go out into the world sometimes, panic attacks, hating myself more or less. Did I feel any more for people then than I do now? I really can't say. My guilt might have been more obvious, though, and I did nice things to try and quell the pain. Now I'm basically content no matter who hates me, and I don't want to go back to being depressed. I don't want to go back to being depressed. I don't want to go back to being depressed. The very idea of it makes my stomach turn. Do I have to be unhappy to be a good person? What other option is there, besides going through the motions, doing what I don't really feel, just because it's what I'm supposed to do. And how it was left with my parents is that they won't be calling again until I call them with some sort of conclusion about the person I have become. They don't like reading about stuff in my diary after the fact. Fact is, however, that I run ideas through my head best this way, so pretty much I will be saying to them what I wrote here. But I guess I will be saying them after all.

Yesterday was a good day, though!

I bought a new toothbrush and toothpaste (which cause me to drool all over myself without fail) and a haircut from some lady I cross the guard for and some new hair wax I sort of enjoy, but mostly I enjoy the feeling of purchasing things. I do not do it often. Next up, played the Bill Cosby Fun Game for a few hours, picked up Smacko (who may have still been tripping balls on shrooms) to cross the guard with me. He had a big smile on his face for a while, but nothing like I was hoping for (e.g. bleeding pink foam from his eyeballs, fighting a bus thinking it was a dragon, uppercutting small children, all loving nature and rolling on the grass, etc.) We very nearly bought some tractor paint for our upcoming secret project. Came back here to try and fine the remote so we wouldn't have to watch "Old Emaciated Jewish Motorcycle Enthusiasts" on the Discovery Channel again. Then, suddenly, Dave Kraft (our landlord) bursts in with a bunch of professionals clad in suits. They were coming to look at their possible future investment, and I'm sure we did not help Mr. Kraft's cause. The house was certainly clean for us, but it does not hold up well to the rest of America's standards. They had suits on and were walking past that overflowing garbage can that smelled like onions! I felt such great shame. Meanwhile, Smacko was busy examining his change or something and suddenly decided that there was some definitely wrong with this one particular nickel. Attributing his bias to psychotropic fungi, I examined the coin myself, and he was right. "It feels... big or something, man." "It's Satan Coin!" So, once Dave and his gang marched out the back (past the 50 lb. bag of duck feed that had been ferociously set upon by the local wildlife), not opting to come back in and make another trek through the house, Smacko and I decided to destroy the fucker. We figured we'd try and melt it, so I took the fondue pot Brytne gave me for Christmas two years ago, filled up with about an inch of lighter fluid, and lit up that bitch. It was much more spectacular than I could have imagined, spewing foot-high flames towards the ceiling and our faces. "It's the Goblet of Fire," I yelled. And so we burned it and watched "The Cosby Show" until we noticed Dave and such walk by, at which point we shut all blinds and made to stand in front of the Goblet such that the sight would not alarm him to heart attacks.

Unfortunately, the coin was more or less unfazed by our demon bowl of flame, so I ran to the computer to do some research. Apparently, the alloy nickels are actually made of melt at about 2000 degrees, so things seemed at a lost. Then, I found this helpful quote somewhere: "Coins can be destroyed by explosions." I stole 2 M-80s from Andrea's friend's house last July and had just been waiting for the right time to use them. I stuck the nickel in between them, applied a generous amount of duct tape, and ran outside with Smacko and a big metal pot. Smacko lit the fuse, I threw the lid on, and we ran for our lives. The ensuing explosion launched the lid of the pot about two feet in the air, which was supremely awesome, but when we checked on the demonic currency, it looked barely touched. More research (and concurrent use of the Goblet of Fire to pass the time) led to the discovery that some butane lighters can get up to about 2500 degrees. Why you would actually need a small torch to light a cigar is beyond me, but we headed to the cigar shop in Champaign to try and get some work done. Stares still abound for my car, but now I mostly gesture frantically at the people, yelling, "So many ribbons! Just covered in ribbons! Can you even believe it?!" One guy was lovin' it, though. We parked on John, and he circled around the car like twice, reading every ribbon over. I half-expected them to be all missing when I got back. Fairplay.

We were amazingly out of place at the cigar hut, but the salesman was very helpful. He showed me a few of the cheaper torches, and they seem OK, so I asked, "Well, about what temperature do the flames get up to?" "Well, what do you need it for?" .....

a) We need to destory some American currency possibly infected by Lucifer...
b) I gots to heat up my crack rock before I can sticks it in my eyeballs!
c) Uhhhh...

I chose c), incidentally. "Are you trying to do some small welding?" he asks. "Yes! That is exactly what we are trying to do! Some small welding! I have many small things that need welding!" "Well, it'll work for that." "Great - take my broken ass Visa card." From there, we drove to pick up Shelly from work, but we were early, and we couldn't get into her little area without a keycard, so mostly we stood around gesturing wildly and pretty much looking more suspicious than anything. Eventually the one middle aged balding guy we could see spotted us and Shelly emerged from behind (under??) his desk, and we got the hell out of dodge. Back at home, we tried to torch that fucker coin for about ten minutes, and it still didn't do shit (Engineer Captain wanted us to build some sort of grate thing and ineffectively stuck nails through washers. "Yeah, good luck with that one.") Discouraged, we figured we might as well show off the Goblet, to which Naysayer Smelly had to point out, "That's probably going to fracture the pot." Only when you say it will, stupid! Flames started spraying out the side as the thing cracked, and Shelly and I both took off, me for a glass of water to put it out, Shelly running in blind shameful girlish fear. We let it run for a little longer before another sharp crack made us (me) put a pot on top of it. A few moments pass. "It's probably safe to take it off now," says Science Whiz, at which point I lift the thing and flames spew out and lick my hands. "Or not." That finally done, (and the house smelling terrible, by the way), we tried to -- Wait, no. It wasn't done. Shelly had us relight the damn thing two more times, to try and get pictures. "Wait, I need to figure out how to adjust shutter speed," she intones as she fumbles with the buttons, and Smacko and I look on in terror. The second time I relight it, I don't even have time to drop the match; the flames leap up and devour my hands.

Where does this leave us? Very pissed off, with an undestroyed coin of evil. Two ideas remain on the floor, but they seem stupidly dangerous even to us, so we might have to wait awhile. Smacko and I want to drive to Indiana and get some M-200s (The rough equivalent of a quarter stick of dynamite), pour the powder into a new tube with a long fuse and the nickel in the middle, and explode that thing in a safe in the middle of a quarry. Sounds good, right? Shelly, meanwhile, wants to use her dad's, un, infinitely clever method for starting fires in their fireplace at home: Getting one of those little propane tanks they use for Coleman lanterns, launching a stream of gas out at the coin, and lighting it, essentially creating the unsafest Flamethrower of Doom. This would be worthwhile, but I totally call "not it" for any stage of execution.

From there, we went to the cesspool of Urbana, the trifecta of terror, namely McDonald's, the porn store, and Geo's Chill & Grill. The former was my idea, having earned $5 in gift certificates for being King Call at work the other night (Oh - and did I mention I'm on the Wall of Fame for having already made over $5000 this semester? Bow before your pagan god!), the latter two belonging to Smacko and Shelly. The porn store contained a huge fat woman, vastly knowledgable about every product in the store. "See, that [vibrator] is the Jack Rabbit - it's a lot better than the Wascally Wabbit as the rotating beads are contained in lines together, so they won't corrode as much." Oh. Good to know. But how is everyone not so curious about some of the stuff, at the very least the creepy as hell "Spanish Fly" liquid. No list of contents required; it is clearly made of both the Spanish and some flies. I could not have thought it could have gotten creepier, but then we decided to "chill & grill," and that was a seedy redneck dive bar if ever I saw one. I guess I should have expected that when the two were actually attached. Pick up some platinum-haired skank in the one, and get her some butt plugs in the other. Classy classy classy.

Quick stop at Schnucks for some liquors of sorts, and we had the good fortune of running into Tony and Buttsex. It looks like they'll actually be coming to bingo tomorrow and maybe even sitting with us, so that makes me joyful beyond reason. Smacko bought hisself a nice 40 of Old English "800," which strangely did not list its alcohol content on the outside of the bottle. Isn't that required by law? It sorts of makes me worry he is drinking beer-flavored Listerine, but who am I to judge another man's body? I down a bottle of wine with a 47-pound cock on it.

We watched From Dusk 'till Dawn, and Shelly did her little Shelly things until we whined at her to drink with us and find us parties. She made us play "Asshole," which I still do not know the rules to, so I kept revealing all of my cards. "Can I put down three fours?" "No, those are socials; why are you such a cretin?" Somehow I still won a fair amount. So much for the ace up my sleeve.

It stopped raining thankfully, and Shelly found us two parties. Both were in Urbana, but both didn't seem like the usual Urbana parties at all. The first didn't have any of the usual people - it was a total punk rock scene. Dyed hair and plastic wrap on the floor as far as the eyes could see. With my homemade shirt and roots showing, I blended in far better than poor Shelly or Smacko. Smacko started drinking directly from the keg while I guarded him, and Shelly cut in front of some guy who really had to poop. We talked for a while; "I feel your pain." The, uh, "band" was starting soon, and it turned out Eric Wilson was in it, so we opted to hang out for a little while. When he rolled a bicycle up by the drums and flipped it over, we certainly knew we were in for a treat. Pretty much they were the worse thing ever. The singer couldn't even approach the mic without it becoming feedback death (which presumably means he is made of electricity somehow), so he sort of yelled vainly (with a lisp!) while strumming his acoustic guitar. Eric, meanwhile, started spinning one of his bike wheels and beating on it while some spoons. Then, in a chilling surprise, he flipped over a bucket and started drumming on that as well. The best part was that he seems to actually have no rhythm at all. Or rather, he might have had rhythm, but it wasn't any that the singer or the rest of us could find.

The rest of the crowd stood still, and I don't know if they were being polite or aloof, but Shelly and I danced around and cheered and hollered. And then promptly got the hell out of there before anyone could actually ask what we really thought of them. I grabbed a plastic dart gun on the way out, and it makes me so so SO happy. The next party was actually at a frat, I think, which is always good news for our crowd. We tried storming in, and door girl was all like, "Come back! It's 5 dollars to get in!" "Wait, not to drink? Just to get in?" "Yeah." "Ha! See ya." Pissed off at these sneering entrepreneurs, we snuck (not sneaked, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care) around back to try and find another way in. Door were heavily-guarded, but not the windows, baby! I wrenched the big wooden screen thing off one of them, and Shelly used her little fingers to pry a basement window open. Smacko would have no part in this and started to leave. Meanwhile, Shelly and I dropped down to the floor below (me somehow hurting my hand, back, and face all at the same time) and headed towards a Coke machine by the door. Just then, some frat goons came down. "What are you guys doing down here?!" "Uh... getting a soda?" "Who do you know?!" "Uh... nobody. We're just here for the party." "Well, you have to go back upstairs." "Haha, you got it!" We made it! We are King and Queen Espionage, respectively. Unfortunately, we had arrived at just the point where the frat was singing their cleverly-altered version of "American Pie" (BEER BEER BEER DRINK BEER!), so we ran to catch up with Smacko. We stopped briefly at the punk party again, but upon seeing Allen Wittman there, we decided that clearly this was not the place for us.

Despite the potential threat of ten times the cops out this weekend for the game, Smacko was in quite a destructive form, booting politcal signs and knocking over recycling bins, construction signs, a ten foot tall ladder, and eight of those orange road barrels. And we ran. I picked up a kids' picnic table and tossed in sideways into a dead shrub (logical choice) and picked pretty flowers here and there. Pretty much he was at our command the whole time. "Smacko, take down that plant thing," and he would go run off and try. That particular plant thing was covered in thorns, though, and would not fall easily, so we both got scraped up, me trying to rescue him. The best was when Smacko kicked the birdbath over; the top part hovered strangely as the base toppled over. It was amazing. Made it home safe, and somehow it was deemed wise to watch How to Deal starring Mandy Moore. It feels like Smacko said clever things, but I do not remember a single one of them.