06/16/2005 - 1:33 a.m. | we keep all that creme danger

I have all this time and nothing to do with it. Or rather, no one to do it with. I ran into Shelly very briefly today (only to learn she had not only thrown out but first dismantled with great ardor - me and Smacko's super bong!), and it was like: Where's Kyle? Work. Where's Spritz? Work. I have to go to class now. I'm running out of ideas, man, so then I took that one and went straight out the door with it. Running, I mean. Not a lot, as I am no track star, but probably about 2 deadly miles. I dunno - it killed about 20 minutes, right, and I was feeling maybe a little self-conscious about the bits of lovehandle that might be forming on me, so yeah, I took off running for a while. I'm that bored. And right now I'm trying to see through a migraine, so please forgive any typographical errors I might make. It's hard to proofread through the white flash of agony.

The rest of the day was spent trying to line up some jobs. The desperation grows only stronger, even though I keep believing that is not possible. I went to the local paper's website today and scrolled through the classified, sending my resume to whatever I was even half-qualified for. "Nanny position? Oh yeah, I love kids! Bring 'er on!" Some of the places wanted faxed resumes, though, and I was not about to leave the house, so I found this thing online that let me e-mail my faxes instead. I felt so God damned pseudo high-tech doing that shit. "I am using the World Wide Web to send you an electronic facsimile!!" Plus, my first buck was free on the fax site, and I only used 48 cents on that, so who's on fire? Nate is!

I got my first callback today, from another delivery job, this time providing crazy old shut-ins with delicious packaged lunches. I'm going in tomorrow for some sort of interview, so I've decided to make it Baby's Day Out, running around and pretending I have even more important things to do. Like applying for the Guest Services position at a very low-star hotel. Middling. Really, by this point, I think pretty much any job could lead to good stories. But the one I'm really gunning for is like a caricature artist at Six Flags. I would just draw stick figures with very insulting speech balloons (e.g. "I smell like horse poop and will die alone!") and would then stick my hand out for a tip. I can't see that not leading to good stories.

I felt like such an ad major today - I actually pasted an ad up on the wall. I didn't think anyone did that, except Allison Helm, and she is obsessed with the field. But yeah, anyway. It's an ad for the Sony Walkman mp3 player I sort of want, partially because I do want it, but also because I really like it's fakey artsy technology style. And the girl's eyes. Let's not neglect those. But yeah, man, I worry about not having enough passion for the field, for any field. What am I going to end up as? And then I think maybe I don't need to worry because if I really fuck up, I can write a memoir like so many people do these days, and I will achieve success that way. But then I think some more, and I really don't think I am self-destructive enough to have anything good to eventually right about. I think you really have to like or dislike life to write like that, and I'm just sort of "eh." I mean, yeah, I do some stupid shit, but that usually comes out of apathy. I think things through too much to do anything truly stupid. Won't start whoring myself. Can't drink myself to death, as I'm terrible at choking it down. Yeah, most drugs seem to have a pretty weak effect on me, and the one that didn't I'm off of because it combines with my other meds to make me barf. Too much conscience to be an asshole and fuck with people's lives or be a manslut or whatevs. So I need to get rid of that internal monologue you people love so much. It's what actually keeps me from doing the really soul-crushing stuff.

I'm saved! I got a preapproved application for a Pay Pal Visa card in the mail today. Up to a $5,000 credit limit! New gameplan: I leave the country and go to Cocomo (where ever the hell that place actually is) and never ever come back. What the fuck could they do? Nathan Walsh would be gone the second I left the border, and I'd be Ted Danson thereafter, shucking clams on the beach for nickels. Reposess that, bitches! Kyle and I did a little victory dance to celebrate.

OK, enough. My head is being kicked from the inside with steel-toed boots, and I need to collapse in the fetal position.