05/16/2005 - 8:52 a.m. | WELCOME TO EARF

Maybe this will be the new rule. Anytime anyone tries to get me to censor something, I'll lock everyone out for so long that by the time I let them back in, their horrible little secret will buried under so many bullshit entries that no one will give a fuck.

I've calmed down some now, but I'm still really hesistant about letting anybody back in. I guess I don't feel like anyone deserves it. Because I'm such a fucking gift to the world. Ha.

Since I've lowered the dosage on my meds, I've definitely noticed the return of some emotions... but I don't know if any of them have been good. Melancholy has returned, anger has returned with a passion, the little fears are creeping back in, as is that knot in my stomach, and I'm suddenly a lot easier peeved than I was. But where is the mania, guy? Where is me dancing shirtless on some table? I miss the quiet, seething rage, I think.

Also, my self-esteem is in the shitter, but I think that is highly-correlated with the fact that my complexion looks much like asshole. I even felt so self-conscious as to go to the doctor - who immediately commented upon entering, "Whoa, I've never seen you looking like that before!" Groan. Anyway, she seemed to think it was adult-onset acne (What the fuck? Where was my respite from teenage-onset acne? Did I just skip that one completely?), apparently the one legacy I got from my father (yes!). So I'm on some antibiotic now, and while it may not be helping my face yet, it is making me nauseus and giving me headaches! Yes! Feel the burn!

This is sort of weird - I was looking at my schedule for the cookie delivery place, and I suddenly noticed that one of the other drives was Jason Kahn, of all people. Oh, that little drug dealer. I like to think he will be combining both businesses. Order a cookie "without coconut" and get an eigth when he gets there. Even stranger, though, I got a voicemail from John Grisham, the gay guy I briefly worked with at the candy store, and he's at the cookie place now, too! Small world for us difficult-to-employ.

Here's a weird one: On his last night here, Smacko and I were killing time until Con-air by watching Independence Day, and somehow I knew an almost sickening percentage of the lines and could recite them along with the actors (annoying the hell out of him, by the way). It doesn't even feel like I watched it that much, but there I am, stuttering along with Jeff Goldblum and all bluster and bravado as Will Smith. Sometimes I wish I understood the systems running up there, guys.

Friday night we were all done with finals, so I thought we should celebrate. And what a celebration it was. I suggested Red Lobster, because I can at least expect mediocrity there (and popcorn shrimp) but Shelly suggested Italian, so we hit two local places. The first one, they decided, was too expensive, so we crash-landed in another one down the street that you could immediately tell was a few levels down on the old star system. Booths - as far as the eye could see. I should have known there was something up when I ordered a root beer - I hate root beer - but it set the tone for the evening very well. The menu was just as expensive as the last place, but rather than having, you know, interesting dishes on it, we were instead faced with what I like to call "Chef Boyardee Italian" - spaghetti and meatballs, cheese tortellini, fettucini alfredo. The most boring dishes in the entire world. And they certainly didn't put much new spin on them - I had to spit out some of bitter iceberg lettuce, and Shelly was almost sure that my tortellini had come directly from Wal-mart. Here's my eleven bucks! But we made the most of it - I wore a gay little sportscoat and posed like Ray Charles (and not as a velociraptor, as they maintain) and we made fun of the weird blind date going on next to us and our awful, awful waitress. Upon finishing our salads: "So, would you guys like your check now?" "We haven't had our meal yet." "Oh." Move it along, dopehead. Then we came home, and I for one was at least planning to get hammered and hit some of the last decent parties of the semester. The two of them were both tired from their all-nighter, however, and when their "nap" dragged on too long, I simply crashed myself. Oh, Nate. You wildman!

While we were at home, we went through a few of my old scrapbooks from my grandma, looking at her crazy pasted-together pictures and laughing at how borderline Rosa Storey was. As embarrassing as it was to hear Kyle or Shelly read aloud my old essays from middle school, it was tons worse hearing the things my teachers used to say about me. They were all so proud... I dunno, man. It's like they thought I was heading for big things, and I feel like I'm going to let them down. It's like I've been twisted since then... I lost so much of the idealism and self-confidence I used to have, and now I'm just cynical and mean and awkward. The changes all happened so gradually - I never noticed them happening, but now I look back on that old Nate ("Nathan," back then), and we hardly seem alike at all. What happened to all that promise? Heh - maybe I just had promise a fourth grader... like, I was a fourth grader at an eighth grade level, but I've been stuck at eighth grade ever since. I don't know. Maybe being at IMSA put me more in my place than even I had realized, that I wasn't special and that all of those people there showed more promise than me. My mom was crying, hearing the things those teachers wrote about me. I keep letting her down, too. Maybe that's why I keep cutting myself off from everyone - I just don't think I can live up to their expectations.

Heh, I'm sort of bummed now.