07/24/2005 - 12:16 p.m. | i don't want your life 3

Sure enough it is 6 in the morning, and I have not been getting sleep before then at all lately, haven't been able to get comfortable or am all itchy or what, but the thing is this: I have not written in a while, and if I don�t write, I will not have written. Now, that is very circular logic, but I�m sure you can appreciate that I am very drunk (which is not true, since I drove the car to Steak and Shake) or at least am very sleep-addled. The main thing is to at least start writing and get something down until the handful of melatonin kicks in and I finally conk out.

Yes, I am aware that melatonin is merely a useless hormone that is supposed to maybe �regulate sleep patterns� and that take five or six times the dosage really does nothing at all, but the placebo effect is just as good, and it makes me all warm and snuggly and ready for bed.

I woke up so fucking late today, but that of course was because I went to bed so fucking late that same morning. 6 o�clock again actually or possibly even later. But whatever. I got up because I was supposed to be meeting Greenpeace lady for something about being a sub for the food delivery thing, but then I also got another call. Well, another six calls or something, most of them from Missy, who is doing a cancer walk in Minnesota right now and is trying very hard to get a hold of me. Misguided creature. Anyway, one of the many messages I dug through was from housing authority guy. My worse fears confirmed: I got the job. He fills me with fear, that man, bein� all, �I was very impressed by you in your interview, so don�t let me down�� Subconsciously makes me say �sir� even! This is not the problem, though. The problem is the (soon to be) aforementioned drug testing and the (soon to be) aforementioned, uh, drugs in my system. I�ve been tossing and turning about how to get around this, and while I have two� barely passable solutions, I think I will actually wait until the day of to reveal this Gattaca shit to you. I have too much to cover as it is.

So, since I did maybe have the one job, I did not need the other job, which means I could cancel the interview or whatever it was and watch �Star Trek� with Kyle. And here is yet another reason while this diary will have to remain locked. While I was on the phone, wandering about the top floor as I am wont to do, I discovered the money drawer from the last party and the money still contained within. I went down to discuss this with Kyle, and we came to a conclusion. We would share this money amongst ourselves and therefore never reveal it to anybody else. But it was to only be used on emergencies and on things together. What do you know? Hotdog emergency! We hit Wonderdogs hard.

Hours upon hours of inspid entertainment. TBS bought up the rights to the most mediocre sitcoms ever created and put them together into this block of hell, so we sat and watched them. Fuck you, �Yes, Dear.� Fuck you, �Everybody Loves Raymond.� We were talking with everybody later, and apparently people sit around and watch this CBS bullshit. I do not agree to that, Lord God. I will not be watching that! But I did. And to make it sufferable, I drank some bottles of �hard� cider, which had been sitting in my hellpit for a room for a week and were far more like piss than any of you could possibly care to know.

We had to pick up Kirk, their old IMSA roommate, from the train station, so I went along. Good thing, too, as I saw the most amazing woman I have ever seen in my life before. OK, clearly that is drunken exaggeration, but you get my point. Or you will when I adequately describe it with written symbols forming words��. Now!

I dunno � she was dark-haired, which is so very important� and she was total an Avril clone with the mascara-y eyes and the wifebeater and short black skirt and Chuck Taylor lowtops, and I dunno� I was so amazingly attracted to her� to the point where I was going to approach her before we left� but then he super muscled tattoo boyfriend came in with his spiked dyed hair and all and she kissed him so passionately that it just sort of made me sort of sad.

We went to the Italian restaurant we opted out of last time for the really mediocre one. Turns out this was not much better, but at least they had a little more variety than Chef Boyardee place. Kirk is so much classier than any of us, it�s really sort of daunting. Mineral water, man! Who can compete?

I have neglected to mention something important, namely the Turner & Hitch double-feature Kyle and I watched on VHS the previous evening. Turner & Hooch was not as perfect as Kyle had led me to believe, but I do love watching that ugly fucking dog smash his head into things. HOOCH DIES AT THE END. Hitch faired better in my mind, but then, our opinion is slightly biased towards Mr. Smith (and Eva Mendes� badunkadunk); I have since watched it three times. Family Video will start calling soon about late fees. We ate a pound of beef jerky.

While we are on the subject of superior cinema, we went over to the Beverly that night (Shelly�s brakes thundering) in order to see the latest in Of The Dead series, Land. It was� OK. I mean, George A. Romero is a god in that he invented the genre more or less, and he is good at inventing new ways to keep the franchise visceral (ripping out the navel ring was fucking hot as hell) while adding to the zombie mystique and his usual social satire sort of thing. The tank thing was sort of fucking stupid, and some might say there were not enough zombies in it, but I thought it was cool. Two qualms with the series that I will rectify in my own endeavors (yes, I am inspired once more): 1) The fact that everyone who dies and is not shot in the head will turn into a zombie. I like the viral idea from the Dawn of the Dead remake a whole lot better. At least there is some hope then. 2) Zombies are not fucking quiet. They are stumbling idiots who moan all the damn time. No more surprise leap-outs! That is cheap. Also, when did he start using the word �zombie� in his films? He was the one invented the whole thing about not calling them that. TWO INSTANCES? Shock, my friends, shock!

Why was I so vulgar? All night long, even before I started drinking, I kept saying all this repulsive stuff, menses as lip balm and the like. However, you will be pleased to know that Shelly gives Kyle sweaty RJs. Smoke on that one for a little while!

I was all fine and dandy being up in my room alone drinking that warm piss apple cider, but then Shelly had to come up and start buggin� me. �Be social! Be social!� Blah blah blah. Then she noticed the partially eaten baguette of French bread on the floor next to my bed. �Why do you have that?� she asks. �It�s hard as a rock.� I�d actually left it there since I�d gotten ill from that wheel of brie I�d tried (also rotting somewhere on my floor), but I was not about to give her the pleasure of a straight answer. �I�m actually waiting for it to harden into a club� some sort of superior weapon. 4 weeks is all it takes.� Clearly, she was not taken with my story and whipped the entire loaf at me. It broke up into pieces. �You fool!� I cried. �I said four weeks, not three! Now it�s ruined� ruined!� She pointed out what a bad weapon it was anyway, and I was determined to prove her wrong. So I pounced. We started whipping weird foam bread rocks at each other, but that was mostly ineffective. I eventually discovered that you could scrape it across flesh, and it would act like sandpaper. Long story short, we came out of the bread fight wounded and with my sheets covered in a layer of crumbs I am not really able to get rid of. �Told you it worked as a weapon.�

Caleb Cole was drunk that night. We sat out on the porch for a while and drank. Kirk and Kyle started on their scotch or bourbon or whatever old man drink they�d decided on. Kirk, having the soul of a 70 year war veteran, took to it well, but Kyle pretty much had a pained look on his face the rest of the weekend. We admired Kirk�s tiny, tiny Powerbook for a while and then set out for the Embassy in the hopes Mr. Cole would be there. We were not disappointed. The bar was completely dead, maybe four other people besides us, and Caleb was trying to make up for it by being completely shitfaced, slurring through song lyrics and such. Still, he was agreeable, playing the requests they kept making me shout out. He screamed a psychotic version of Tennessee Ernie Ford�s �Sixteen Tons,� so I was impressed. A huge fat woman was drunk off her ass and kept tearing up to us shaking Caleb�s tip can. Then she would get distracted again and try to make it a threesome with the poor couple who clearly just wanted to make out with one another. We got out as soon as we could.

We were up �til 6, as clearly I am evidence, but I couldn�t tell you what filled so many of those hours. Drinking, of course� and there was the trip to Steak and Shake I mentioned (Someone smashed a ketchup bottle, and I think the cool dude from Parkland was mocking us), but I must admit these nights seem sort of wasted if we don�t at least go to a party or something. I just read that back, and I cannot tell if it was coherent or not � a clear indication I need to go. GOOD NIGHT