04/28/2005 - 3:07 a.m. | everybody wants Nate Walsh to pay attention to them

Friday was all hungover and awful for pretty much everyone involved. I kept downing water and Goldfish even though it made me feel like puking, Kyle may very well still have been quite drunk (spilling water down his chest and stumbling about, knocking shit over), and Smacko was still too bad to even do his shrooms. Imagine that, my friends. Smacko too fucked up to do drugs. You can see what a sorry state we were all in.

I rode over to McKinley to try and appear healthy enough that they would give me more meds. Pretty much every time I go in, it's with a mission. I never say anything specifically, but I dance around the subject until Dr. Robin finally suggests, "More meds? Maybe some Viagra? How about a few months' longer than usual?" If I played my cards right, I am almost certain I could get Kyle the valium he is willing to pay $15 for, but anyway... my mission this time was to get a lower dose, let a little of the crazy drip back in, so that I won't be such an asshole anymore. So we played the game, and she went through my history with the meds, finally reading those little scrawled notes that everyone always wonders about. Her evaluation from last fall was something like this: "Hair has changed from red to black [She always notes me hair color changes]. He maintains good eye contact, smiles at appropriate times, and he makes his thoughts known in a logical, reasonable manner. His movements are at times jerky, but certainly not out of normal limits. He seems like a thoughtful, intelligent student..." TRICKED YOU. Maybe that's why I enjoy job interviews so much - I get to act all normal and say the right things and use all those social skills I worked so hard on. Eye contact? Fuck, I would hope it's good, I've been working at it since freshman year of high school. I like the jerky movements thing, though; I hope I've been spazzing out for years and all of you guys have been too nice to say anything about it.

Anyway, got my lowered dose and got on my way, ate a pound of Spaghettios, and basically spent as much time as possible in a heap of recovery. When Ducky arrived, he, me, and Kyle all sat around and watched the latter 2 parts of a 3 part special on do-it-yourself mandolin making (We decided the first part was probably about "picking out wood" and was therefore unnecessary). The do-it-yourself part was a little misleading, as it should have read "do-it-yourself if you have a computer guided routing saw, plus a variety of insane hand tools and the dexterity of a brain surgeon." I had the masking tape, at least.

Ducky left to eat dinner, came back, and I'm still not sure we had done much. I mean, I cleaned myself and wrote a diary entry, but those are supposed to be givens by this point, no? I was still functioning under the theory that we would actually be going to the strip club that evening, plus the idea of any alcohol at all made me want to break faces in, but I went to Schnucks and bought 9 40 oz. bottles of Olde English "800" for everyone else. I don't think there are many things more embarrassing than getting in line behind a mom and her two kids with your damn basket all clank from so much heavy malt liquor. They're starting to recognize me (or Sean, rather) and not card, so it'll be hilarious when I can finally start using my real ID. "What the fuck happened here?" "SUCKAS!!!"

Eventually, after so much goddamned Sportscenter about the draft (and that fucking dyejob guy whose sole purpose in life is to come out of his cave once a year and yell about who is going to pick what - don't we usually use small rodents for that?), it became clear to me that we were going nowhere. Instead, the idea on the floor seemed to be that we get a porn movie on Pay-Per-View. Oh lord, yes. That's tons less sad. We read through all of the descriptions on the thing and finally decided on Incredible Gulp 2, as it was vastly superior:

"Beautiful young harlots slap him around causing him to puff up big and strong. Then, trying to calm him down, tasty tongues purr and whisper causing him to get so excited he spits. And he spits hard."

Clear winner. And our rationalization throughout was that the next day we would have Ducky call up the cable company (as Nathon Walsh) and complain, saying the signal was all screwy and how all he wanted to see was some young harlots gulping incredibly (twice?) and how he wasn't even able to get off and bam - clearly that would earn us our $11.99. It's been nearly a week now, though, and I pretty much consider our cause to be lost.

At least it might have been worth it if had been decent porn, but our standards are way too high. We wanted hot girls or a stupid plot or at least some interesting decisions in terms of position and technique, but no. All we got was the same damn scene like 5 times over. Mildly unattractive skank is all sitting outside and starts taking off her clothes, mostly rubbing her undies on her mangled vagina. Then, almost out of nowhere (as in, you have to pause and advance the tape frame by frame to see them approach) two naked man scurry up, hardons in hand and pretty much shove those in her face. We then watched as she began ingesting them (hoping and praying that the two penii would touch at some point and we could safely call these men gay) and then they would take turns fucking her, moaning like jackasses. Five times over. And because this is classy pay-per-view cable porn, no money shot, which means the movie we watched was cut down by at least 40 minutes (I looked it up online after the fact). More of us got a boner watching the mandolin video than this.

Next was The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the remake, starring Jessica Biel's tits, ass, and abs. Smacko drunkenly tried to convince us it was based on a true story, except that, you know, it was a remake of a film financed by the same company who produced Deep Throat, so somehow I am mistrusting their credibility. "The footage at the beginning and end is real, though!" he yells. Well, whatever. Not nearly enough people were hacked up for this to have properly been called a chainsaw massacre. Maybe a chainsaw snafu or a chainsaw oopsie-daisy, but someone could do a lot better than putting Miss Biel first out in the rain and then in an industrial freezer. Yes, you have nipples; they're grand. Shanks stumbled in at one point to announce that he had pissed in an empty 40 bottle and tossed it out in the street where it sat, unbroken, until a car ran over and smashed it. Grand as well.

Everyone else started fizzling off to sleep, but I stayed up with Ducky to make sure he finished all 160 oz. of malt liquor he had promised when the night began. We kept trying to decide on a movie to watch until he passed, and I was left alone with the aforementioned White's Brand Metal Detector. It has a bottlecap detector, folks! So you won't waste your time digging up bottle caps instead of GOLD! What a feature!

The next day was all party preparation. Oh wait - very, very little of it was, but luckily we still managed to get it all done in time, despite starting at nearly 3. Long ago I decided that I would help in only the crudest fashion, grunt labor as needed, and leave the planning to the more capable, but clearly expectations were high there. Our dynamic duo spent a good portion of the day on creating rasterbations of all of our faces (and not just the one of me that was there at the last party) as well as constantly checking the facebook page on our party to see if another one or two people had RSVP'd yes. Because clearly those things are of much more grand importance to a party than, say, booze or... having any space at all to move around in. But right. I decided to stay out of these sorts of negative thinking situations and only do what was assigned. Ducky started singing this really inaccurate instrumental of Ludacris' "Roll Out," and I was lucky enough to get a version recorded. Sucker, you think I share that shit with you?

Eventually, most of the furniture was moved out the areas we needed it moved out of (but don't ask me how 'cause every time I turned around it seemed like I saw four or five people who had just heavily plopped themselves on the couch - but again! Not my problem!), so we took a break to watch this video had from the AARP or whatever about how to deal with police encounters and protect your rights. The acting was fairly stand-out considering - the stoner guy was a retard, the cops were pricks - and it was nice to have some of the loopholes and whatnot nailed down by such a trustworthy source. Namely a video gotten somewhere on the internet. Here are some hints: 1) Never consent to anything. Force them to physically shove you over to look for that bag of "bud" stashed in your shed. 2) Just keep asking if you can leave, even it logically makes no sense at the time. "Do you have any idea why I pulled you over, son?" "No, officer. Am I free to go?" And then wave congenially (i.e. sarcastically). 3) Return all questions with questions. It traps them! "Do you know how fast you were going, son?" "Do you know how fast I was going?" Bring on Kojak, you cunts! I have a .avi on my side!

One of the better phrases from the video (besides "You smell like Bob Marley's ass[hole]" to the stoner kid) was the accusation from one of the cops, "You've been hosting an alcohol party." Not one of those wicked alcohol parties! Them thar have been prohibited since ought seven. Well, anyway, I decided that would be the perfect slogan for my t-shirt for the evening. Along with an anthropomorphic pineapple. People ask why, what is the obsession with the faces on the inanimate objects, and all I can say is that I would much prefer to live in a world with anthropomorphic fruit and home appliances than in a world with anthropomorphic people. Perhaps because my creations have only two selected emotions - shy or pissed off. I want to pick up a teapot and have it spray steam in my face and call me a shithead. That is why I do that.

So, while the others are off decorating or purchasing things at the stores (Kyle being retarded and getting Spritz shit down for all the booze they were going to buy at Meijer), I paint for a while until I am suddenly told, "This is Harsh [He is fat] and you will follow him to giant speakers because yours is the only big car left." Fine. So we enter the serial killer part of Champaign, and I am in some DJ's mega house, and they are talking shop, trying to impress me, I think, and I am tempted to bust in with the only bit of DJ knowledge I know ("Wicca, wicca, contact," specifically), but I stay silent and prop the door open with a beer bottle. No one bothered to thank me for that one, did they?! Since I was out and really rather uncaring of whether anyone lived or died by this point, I stopped at the art store for yellow paint. I did not have any pineapple colors.

A quick stop at home and then Spritz and I were out to get the cheapest vodka we could find in town. Dmitri! $9.99 a bottle. We then stopped briefly at McDonald's for a Happy Meal (which happily does come in the huge polluting box it used to again) and a Chicken Select meal for Kyle, as I ate the chicken tenders Smacko had stolen for him earlier, and if I had not replaced them, I would be crucified as we speak, all my shit dripping out of me on Golgotha right now. You do not fuck with Kyle Wild's computer or food supply, that much is clear. Ducky and I ran out next, trying to get him some cheap Redbull from somewhere. "Don't worry, man," I said. "Much cheaper! Worth the time!" Half an hour and like six stores later, I think we found the most expensive place there was. Ooh, my bad. At least I had this giant orange gumball. The size of my fist, I swear!

Ducky had me shove it in my mouth and pretend to be his sex slave, Eustice. The disturbing S&M trend only continued later on when I forced him to drink the nasty Redbull and creme de banana concoction he had created by pretending to be his pledge dad or something. I kept screaming and telling him he would never be a Sig Pi unless he drank all the liquor. All of it.

More time was spent on those damn rasterbations and the retardation pretty much ran rampant, but we were ready for the party at 11 o'clock as scheduled. Now, as much as I hate journalism in all its forms, my account alone would be a little... unbalanced, so I've consulted people here and there additional facts. I swear, I had only the one bottle of wine, but somehow I ended up beyond drunk. Like, I've been pretty drunk before, but even as it is happening, I feel like I am in the confines of a system of feelings and actions I know to mean "drunk." This was not the case this evening, and I don't know if someone slipped me the roof or what, but I was gone beyond reason at times. Which is why we pepper this with other people's accounts here and there. Suck on it.

As always, the party started off pretty slow, with just Brytne and Dan, Tebben and Allison, and Andy and a bunch of his friends, including the one long-haired guy from his movie The Big Wazowski. This'll sound stupid, but even though I couldn't even remember if this guy had been good or not in it, it felt like I was seeing a movie star in real life. I watched that fucker so many times that I was actually a little amazed to see him in person. In short, I was too shy to say anything. Not too shy to sing and dance, though. Only drunk guy on the dance floor! It was too early for the equipment to be set up, so I came down with my shitty Sony boombox and the only two "hip-hop" CDs I own - the 80's compilation "Monsters of Rap" and Blackalicious "A2G" EP. And then I fucking cavorted around like the belle of the ball. Allison and Tebben stopped and watched my one man show as I yelled lyrics and tried to act all smooth. I would love to see that on film sometime just to see how unsmooth I actually was.

Once the DJs were set up and the party started filling in some (I recall going over to Kyle to give him some more CDs), I went out on the porch to sit and watch people stream in. Without me really realizing it, I was suddenly surrounded by all these Russian breakdancers who just started screaming at each other (in Russian, of course) and waving their cups of vodka around. Unnerved, I sat and slowly sipped my wine. As Kyle later said, I should joined in with the "Mike Tyson's Punch Out" sort of Russian: "POPOV DMITRI SPUTNIK KREMLIN!" I would have fit right in.

Jevon came out to save me (smoking his pipe all like a badass) and I stole away to get my Polaroid camera from the car. Henceforth, I mostly took to runnning from place to place, snapping closeups of people at random. You certainly don't give a fuck how much pictures cost then, do you? Brytne and Allison were tending bar at this point (until their better halves got a little too shithoused to exist), so I visited up there for a while, talking to them and Ducky until suddenly inspiration took hold. I had to find Smacko.

By this point I was way, way gone, but I crammed myself through the crowd ("Who is that hot chick? Oh fuck, Hilary Hothan again!") and found Smacko on the porch. "SMACKO! WANT TO GO TO SCHNUCKS WITH ME?" He says he does, and we head out.

Here is an interesting side note from Yousaf: At this point, Kyle may or may not have been talking to some authority figures about the noise. We were pretty lucky, though, in that they were merely the campus safety patrol (students in vests no more threatening than my own crossing guard uniform) and that we only ended up with a warning for the night. Anyway, Kyle ran inside afterwards and got on the mic, saying (in his best ghetto voice), "Yo yo yo we gots our first noise complaint up in this hizzy..." to which someone yelled, "Shut up, Justin Timberlake!" And everyone laughed. See, because his voice is high, like a woman's.

Another: It was a busy night for Andy, too. Again, while we were gone, he bust out on the dancefloor like a maniac, carrying with him a [live?] lobster he had bought earlier in the day. So the lobster's all out there and somehow, as only Andy could do, gets the crowd chanting, "Lobster... lobster... lobster..." over and over to "Ice, Ice Baby." Somewhere in the process, though, the poor creature was kicked around and ripped limb from limb, so that the next day we find legs and claws all over the house, a big old torso out in the middle of the yard. Then, this coked up guy who was hanging out, starts asking Andy if he "parties." "YEAH I PARTY! I PARTY ALL THE TIME!" he yells, completely oblivious. "No," the guy says. "I want to know if you want to [swipes nose] party" "I ALREADY AM! I DO ALL THE TIME!" Finally, the guy has to spell it out for him: "Do you want to do coke or fuck?" It would appear he attracts all the gays just like myself. The coke thing I could understand, as I can see why he might seem that way to an outsider, but where does the gay come from? I kept asking everyone that all night. Why do people immediately think I'm gay. "Well, you make your own bright t-shirts..." "Yeah..." "And you dance and sing a lot..." "And you cross your legs like a woman..." "Well, shit."

Anyway, back to me. I'm apparently weaving all over the place like Smacko was on Thursday. I keep trying to cross the street at inopportune times, saying, "I'm not that drunk, man! I can tell a car or not." Smacko decided I was not allowed to make anymore decisions in the matter. Finally, about halfway to our destination, I ask, "So what do you need from Schnucks?" Slap forehead. We discuss. "Oh well. I could always buy more Polaroid film... even though I have a lot." We carry on, me snapping more pictures. We get there and start wandering around looking for film. I keep telling Smacko he should get a 40, but he does not think I would make the best case for the cashiers right now. Sasparilla is brought up and vetoed for some reason. Finally, we go to some cashier, and I ask her for the film. "Do you have any Polaroid film?" "Huh?" Is this because she is dumb or I am too gone to speak? I decide the former. "Polaroid film, do you have it?" She laughs because I am trying very hard to act sober and am apparently not doing the greatest job, leaning heavily on the counter. She points me towards the rack, where I do sort of remember examining it. I keep asking Smacko if it is the right kind of film, and he has no idea. I say I'm not sure (which I know for a fact is a lie), and we head back on our way, Smacko buying some sunflower seeds, which I just think is so ridiculous at the time. We stop to pee on the Autozone or whatever, he making me physically keep my hands on some power structure so that I won't skip off into the night and try to knock over some sign that has already been knocked down (We are mad about that, I think) and then I go and piss in some fenced in area myself. Then on the walk back I trip over some gravel. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but my specific recollection is actually of me doing a horizontal corkscrew in middair, landing on my knees. Somehow I don't think this is the case. In the process, the remaining half of my big gumball fell out of my pocket. Smacko handed it to me, all rock-covered, and I took a bite and kept going. I find that so hilarious for some reason.

Less funny was that a bunch of the Polaroids I had taken - good ones, I'm sure - had vanished from my pocket since the fall. They kept turning up in weird places later on, too. One was way out in the parking lot behind our house, and I know I was never in that area. Another was hidden under a pile of trash in the house. If you find more, send them to me. I will send you back kisses.

Love - or lust - was in the air that evening, as both Ducky and Jevon got a little tail. Jevon was the clear winner of the two, doing it with some hot 17 year old in my bed (I'm told - must have been the pipe... or his outstanding good looks). This is all fine by me, Jevon's seed splattered near my face as I sleep and whatnot, for I gave Ducky permission to use my room as necessary during the evening (even though he described it as virtually imperceptible from that of a 14 year old girl), I think contractually the same rights were afforded to Kyle's brother. It was pretty awesome, though, as Jevon didn't have a condom, and his awesome Columbian friend Alex (the same who kept calling Shanks "a fat piece of chit" as a joke) ran up to Kyle all like, "Chu need to help your bruthar." So, Kyle started running around to random people asking for protection (always a good way to meet people) and eventually met some Mexican guy with like-minded views as Alex. He didn't even charge him for it. "If it's for your brother, take it." Finally, family values actually helping someone out. Much penis was inserted into the vagina, I think.

Anyway, I got back, and apparently I had made some sort of promise to Kyle earlier because all of a sudden I am being ushered away from the dance floor and up into my room to change into the robot suit. I'm not sure this is a good idea, as I am hardly a fully-functional young man by this point, but Kyle just keeps shoving parts on and suddenly I am thrust downstairs, right in the most crowded part of the evening. Little hope of escape (or movement, besides in a circle) by this point, I mostly flail my arms and pray I will stay hydrated long enough to survive.

Elliott noted there were two camps regarding the issue. Some people fucking loved the robot and thought it was so awesome, but others fucking hated me for taking up so much of their room and attention. "But I'm flailing my arms so much as I dance! Grind on meeeeee!" As people clearly thought I was inhuman, they let their impulses run wild. The ones who liked me kept grinding, rubbing their crotches and asses all over. I couldn't see if they were all female, but I prayed for the best and ground back at them. One girl who was especially into me and kept rubbing her chest on my face reached inside the suit and tried to get busy with my testicles. There was little I could do but rotate away... rotate away. Occasionally someone would come up and ask me how I was doing, and I would say something inspiring like, "This is hell!" or "I wish I could die so as to stop feeling pain." Michelle's cute friend Micah was especially friendly all night, giving me hugs and dancing with me all silly. He sort of reminded me of Frankie. The people who hated me, however, mostly shoved me around or would take a flat out punch to my head. With such a narrow field of vision, there wasn't much I could do about it. POW and I would go jarring in one direction. BAM off in another. Again, the most I could do was rotate towards them in the hopes my stern eyebrows would restrain them for further beatings. On the most part, it did. Someone else really did think I was a robot, I think, and kept trying to grab down my arms to feel my hands. But I would just duck my arms further inside and flail about more. Why destory their fourth wall, huh?

As things just got fuller and time began to lose meaning, I began yelling at anyone who would listen that I needed help being led out. Finally, some very kind girl did help me out and up the stairs, but I never got the chance to thank her :( as I was suddenly affronted by this chubby auburn ("RED") haired girl. As I struggled to get out of the suit and get away, she grabbed me and tried to teach me to waltz or something, but she was fucking terrible, so I ended up showing her instead. I ignored the near-grabbings of my ass for a while (I mean, what with it being so huge and all) and tried to distract her with questions. "What do you study?" I asked. Answer is: Gypsies in Slovakia. Or at least that's what I recall. So that was sort of fascinating to me, so I started asking all these questions about gypsies and making her say things in Slovakian and all of a sudden her tongue is flying towards my face. Nuh-uh. "That doesn't have anything to do with gypsies," I said and got the fuck out of there as soon as I could. She immediately went flying over to some giant black dude to start grinding into him.

I would have thought being assaulted in a robot suit (and nearly making oriface contact with a red-haired person) would have sobered me the hell up, but not quite, as I slipped making my escape and pretty much tumbled down the entire flight of stairs. Good show. I decided to spend the rest of the evening on the dance floor. This turned out to be about five hours.

What else? Uh, this tall Indian guy apparently kept trying to steal our bottles of alcohol, and we certainly don't tolerate that sort of thing, so Spritz booted him out of the house and was only moments away from beating the shit out of him when someone stopped him. Uhm... Tebben's girlfriend Allison is now infinitely cooler now that she'll put some alcohol inside her. As bartender, she started offering to squish her boobs together for money, greatly increasing our profit margin. The toilet, meanwhile, (our only toilet) went out of whack, and Tebben (who else?) took it on himself to regulate the line, stopping frequently to go in and flush the damn thing from the inside by hand. Not an enviable task, especially when there are angry drunk people with full bladders shaking their sizable fists at you.

Most of my time was spent semi-flirting with some of the people on the dancefloor. It still seems like the rudest thing in the entire world to actually go up to someone and start slamming my denim cock into them, so that mostly means eye contact, but what the hell? There were more than enough black guys to do that already, and besides, if anyone really wanted to dance with me, they would break the rules and approach me instead. Once the dreadlocked Japanese girl left, however, I was left with only the 3 Indian girls and the Crazy Dance Brigade, and neither of them were all that promising. First off, I do not like Indian girls at all, as their noses are usually too big, and I have an irrational fear that they would taste like curry (Bad Nate! Ohhhh, bad Nate!). But still, it's fun to play, so we kept this thing going all night where whenever I approached them, they would shift away some, and whenever they approached me, I would do the same. So this one chummy Indian guy (the same who stopped Spritz from punching the guy apparently) starts pumping my hand and doing the whole, "Women, huh?" thing with me. "I've been trying to get with Indian girls like that for 4 years now, and I'll tell you, man, it's never once happened! They're just too crazy! Too crazy!" I didn't have the heart to tell him that I thought they were gross, so I said supportive things like, "But you've gotta keep trying, right, man?" and eventually he would leave me alone. Occasionally I would shift my attention to the Dance Brigade (usually when the girl one was trying to smash her butt into my pelvis). There were three members - two guys trying to get one with the one sort of chubby artfaggish girl - and man, did they have some moves. Unless I am trying to be deliberately cute, I stay pretty below the radar, but not these guys! The one guy was a Shoulder Dancer the likes of which Spritz has never even seen; he rocked 'em sideways, up and down so fast that they were practically a blur. The other guy was all arm flailings, and the girl kept making up such insane one-legged flopping moves that occasionally I would be forced to stand and watch her, finally joining in to mimic. IT WAS FLY AS HELL. Ducky would breeze through now and then to hug me and chat up the two groups I just mentioned. And then there was the guy in the black jacket and red pants who fucking annoyed me so much. All he did all damn night was bump past me over and over again and say, "Let me through, man." He wasn't even going anywhere; he'd just move five feet in either direction, always directly in my path. I was about ready to say something, but I'm sure that's what he was waiting for, and then I'd have a length of pipe stuck in my head. No thanks.

Around 5 or so, people started filing out a bit, but the crowd remained pretty large nonwithstanding. More and more of an effort was made to get them out, but you know how parties go, hmm? I started talking to some people, including this one guy in a corduroy jacket who apparently lived in my room last year. We discussed the climate problems. "Fuck, dude! Isn't it as cold as hell in there in the winter?!" "Yeah, man, and then the fucking Gobi in the summer!" "I know, man! It sucked!" Then he rode his bike home. I assume he is dead. Lots of people thanked me for throwing such a party. Even though I did shit, I'm glad to know we're getting a reputation. Meanwhile, this girl who had been pounding on the door, all drunk beyond reason and menacing, came in and started telling me the woes of his life. I listened for a while and tried to make sense of his words. He kept talking about someone cutting through him and leaving him for dead. "Who, man, who?" "My own best friend!" And then something about someone kicking the cup out of his hands and into the bushes. I thought he was probably just full of shit (and rum), but the latter part might have been true, courtesy of Smacko. And once in a while he would turn on me, and I feared for being punched in the head, but Allison led him out (Yay Allison) and I was safe again.

Nothing like 5 hours of nonstop motion to finally get all the madness out of you. I was sober as hell by then and stood out on the lawn watching people leave. Finally, nearly everyone was gone except this one large crowd of people, so I offered them a ride to way the fuck wherever in Urbana they were from. They were a group of battle rappers it seemed and kept going at it as I would yell for someone, anyone, to give me directions. They kept saying how cool I was, though, and offered (threatened?) to be back next weekend, as our party was "poppin'". "No party," I said, but also no guarantee they won't just show up anyway.

As I pulled back in the driveway at around 5:30, I saw someone leaning heavy on a girl in our yard. No way could that be Tebben, I thought. When did he get so drunk? But it was him and he was drunker than I've seen most anybody. Apparently gracious bathroom patrons (and girls who wanted a shot at his pants) kept buying him drinks - nobody ever buys me drinks - until he was quite wasted. And whether he knew it or not (I would guess not), he and Yousaf were sharing the dual plane of friendship. Both were puking and stumbling and saying crazy shit all at the same time. Yousaf was wild-eyed, puking into his trashcan and talking about the angel of a girl who had helped him in his darkest hour. As things became more sorted, Kyle offered to drive the both of them home and suddenly we had crazy in stereo. Yousaf was talking about how Kyle was, in fact, accelarating, how even though we were going 15 in a 30 zone, "the velocity of the velocity was increasing and that meant acceleration something something friction coeffecient." Tebben was meanwhile repeating over and over how he was made of gold. "I am made of gold, I am the golden man, I cannot be stopped." They shared a garbage can to puke in. I lugged Yousaf back to his place and we discussed him getting a woman - he is not an optimistic fellow - and then Kyle rode back in victory. What an awesome party.

The next day we counted our earnings ($80 - which would have been $5 had we actually gotten a ticket... although I don't understand the price change on that one) and were pleased with the results, because we got a fair amount of stupid shit. Probably not as many people came this time, but the weather was shitty as hell (Sleet and hail during the day, no shit) and we were a lot more prepared and had some decent moneymakers ready. Arby's for celebratory lunch, fairwell to Ducky, and then most of the day was spent cleaning and moving shit back. Fine by me - that's what I'm good at and there's nothing better than mopping on a nice Sunday afternoon to some Beta Band. Between my several falls and the hours and hours of dancing, my legs and arms all hurt like a motherfucker and were all covered in wounds and bruises. I walked like a cowboy and stairs made me cry like a woman. I wasn't moaning that like for attention, guys; that was just me keeping the screams in. The injuries only continued when, trying to lift up a box of heavies, I slipped and chomped the tip of my tongue off. Blood blood blood. So there's that. Lots of work all day, but the house is rearranged and fairly clean, and we made us up some hamburgers. Too tired to go to bingo, Smacko and I watched the Food Network and its ridiculous pastry championship and most of us passed out, exhausted. There, back to only one or so entries behind.

Ducky said he likes my look a lot better now than he did back freshman year or before. Thanks, dude. I'm glad someone agrees with me.