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� 09/07/2005 - 5:49 p.m. | let's plot this approximately It took like half my battery power just to get the damn laptop started, so I�m sure I�ll be getting a ton written here today in Audience Analysis. I was trying to think of a clever name I could give this class, like �Audience ASSalysis,� but I�ve got fucking nothing, besides a fuckton of news to catch up on. Luckily, I made it a point to drunkenly plot out everything that needed writing, and I have that useless sheet of tiny scrawled notes right here with me. Friday started with more skipping � oops. And did I tell you in advance about my horrible task? I don�t think I did. See, Jenise, the fat inspector with a more amazing mustache than my own, was finally leaving her temporary role in Champaign and heading back to her hometown. But that meant she needed a ride to the airport in Bloomington. And guess who that shitstorm fell upon? Oh yeah, this was going to reach whole new plateaus of awkward conversation. I asked around, with little hope, if anyone would care to join me on this trailblazing to hell. Luckily, there was one man masochistic to join me on this journey of hell. Kevin �Smacko� Wombacher. Lord bless that man. And how was our journey? Well, Smacko did not say a damn word the whole fifty minute ride there, so it was just me and Jenise. And Lord, did she have stories to tell. Topping the list would be her Red Lobster success story, which reaffirmed my beliefs that everyone in the world should just burst into flames. �I been there like four or five times this month, so when I told them it was my last night, they gave me my meal on the house. Steak and lobster! I couldn�t even eat it all, but mmm-mmm! It was good! Plus, they gave me coupons for when I was back home.� Free huge dinner AND coups?! That is too fucking great to be true. Plus, she also earned two free nights at any Red Roof Inn across the country! You lucky cunt. Fascinating stories about all the cars she has (�I already got three cars, and it�s just me and my daughter! A man tried to give me a new car when he died, but I didn�t take it! I�m not greedy!�) Yeah, there was a whole series of stories about her part time job as a caretaker for old people. �I was like, �What does it mean when he hasn�t swallowed his food?� And they told me to check his feet if they were blue, and they were, and he was looking straight ahead with no gleam in his eye, and my daughter asked me if I saw the angels take him up, and I said, �I didn�t see no angels, baby, but I was lookin�!� She also discussed her replacement, who, as far as I can tell, is going to be a complete fucking retard. �Now, me, I can adapt to about anything. People always like, �How you stay so calm, Jenise?� And I don�t know, but I can adapt. Ericka� she can�t do that so well, I don�t think.� Glorious. Glorious. The most important note I took during the drive was regarding the old shirts that the previous inspector Dave had left in the trunk. �This is the only thing you need remember,� I thought and kept underlining and emphasizing it. When we finally did drop off Jenise (�Oh, I never even talked to you, Kevin! That�s so rude of me!�) and we could start laying into her fully, Smacko and I pulled the inspector mobile � HAHAHA Oh Christ they gave me the keys to the inspector�s car for the weekend! A fucking brown Ford Focus with �SECTION 8 INSPECTOR� written all over the damn thing. �MAKES FREQUENT STOPS� and so forth � into a gas station, and he pulled one of those shitty white shirts on, and it was on. �Section 8, bitch! We don�t fuck around!� He started shouting at almost everybody, hitting the side of the car to let them know that, yes, indeed, we were Section 8 Inspectors (as if anyone knew what that meant) and that, yes, we were the baddest motherfuckers as an end result. Was there a Section 8 gang sign? Yes, there might have been. I decided to steal the car for the weekend. Yeah, maybe that wasn�t wise, but I was getting a little daring and wanted the fuck out of this job. Besides, what the fuck is funnier than driving around in a stupid inspector mobile with your friends, when clearly none of them are anything close to an inspector (Smacko�s polo shirts notwithstanding), going to fucking Red Lobster (Oh yes, we were going now in my mind, this was decided) and waving our purchased booze about. Jenise loved her air fresheners, but we sure as hell did not. As Smacko fished through the glove box and ganked her �crack ligther,� he stumbled on no less than three forms of awful, awful scent masking. The can of clearance aisle Secret body spray was an acceptable weapon, but the others were not. �Hookshot that shit out the window,� I said. Apparently you can�t do that going ninety. It instead flew straight back at the old people behind us, causing them to swerve. We tried to escape from them (and the theoretical authorities they were calling), but then we realized. Section 8. We don�t fuck around. That night was drunken and fun. Kyle was having airsoft battles on the roof of Davenport, so it was mostly me and Shelly for the night. I started speaking openly of the coming split with Missy. They all seemed to think it was a great idea, but maybe they were just agreeing with me. Timing was also an issue. Like I said, this should be done in person, but how was the going to work? Wait �til she got here, all excited with plans for my birthday and then just trash her heart? After one last weekend then? It would be like I was doing it for the presents or some shit. No, it had to be soon, I decided. Actually, I decided I had to be tomorrow, as she would have sister to comfort her then at least. Oh God, this was going to suck. Some random chubby Jew thirteen year old ran through our yard, asking us for beer. He insisted he was not homeless. Smacko insisted he would break a bottle over his head (He would have been better off saying he was a hobo). We discovered him three hours collapsed on a bus stop bench, in agony. Smacko added the insult to injury, telling him what a fucker he was and how he would never get any of his beer. �I hope you die!� Good man, Smacko. He probably would have pissed on his head if we hadn�t been there. Shelly and I mostly stuck together because of Allison and what I believe was her on and off boyfriend Mike. What a douchebag. I could see why she wanted to be with me in his place. The kid was a poseur and a prick and didn�t have an original idea in his head, making up for it by being loud. Also, he made fun of Smacko� behind his back. OK, that�s just fucking weird. We think it was jealousy, as Smacko kept making Allison laugh, and clearly this sad fuck could never do that shit. I was happy to mostly stay under the radar, although Allison kept telling me how nice I was, and that can never help. They disappeared between bars at some point. I assume they were banging in an alley. Yike. We went back to the Skulls frat (what the fuck?) and had some fucking terrible fruit beer. Everyone kept doing my accent, so I decided to be different by not doing the accent then. Also, by stumbling around in a zombie pose, which led to the first decent picture of me in a long time. As always, my ulterior motive for hanging out with Allison was to accidentally stumble on Hillary. It worked again! We ended up at some birthday party, and there they were, Hillary and Jasmine. I sat in a garbage can for a while and waited to be invited into the chat, then heard about all sorts of insane Jasmine drama I could not even begin to follow, and I was in. We all moved to the couches, and once I ran out of things to play with, it might have gotten pretty boring. Luckily, Shelly and I simultaneously decided to have a two person dance party, which is about when I started to fuck the poor birthday girl�s world. Firstly, Queen�s �You�re My Best Friend� came on the radio (It�s been following me everywhere lately), and I drunkenly pawed at the device, learning too late that it was an iPod rigged to transmit the stereo, so that it began blasting horrid static instead. I was like a confused chimp, mashing other random buttons to little success. Luckily, Shelly helped. Then I made the mistake of showing off my belly button ring, which was a huge hit amongst everybody. They were all so strangely impressed. I guess they�ve never seen a straight guy with that shit. The new trend, I promise. I touched as many tummies as I was able. I�m not sure how it always fucking happens, but then all of a sudden Hillary�s old roommate (who really was a smoking hottie) kept telling me to take my shirt off, and of course I am required by some sort of moral code to comply. I mean, if I listen when Kitty tells me to get nekkid, I�m pretty sure I�m going to do whatever this gorgeous girl is saying, am I right? In the resulting flinging about of my clothes (pants remained on thankfully, although you must believe the offer was on the table), I tore down like half of the party decorations, and the owners of the apartment looked on in horror. �Who is that shirtless guy?� Why does it always happen this way? The epic conflict between those who want me naked and those who definitely, definitely not. We got the fuck out of dodge, and I started yelling in the back alley. Brief notes: - �There were some bars. Is that even important? None of us were 21. It was so sad.� Jasmine was loving my ass, giving me all sorts of hugs and calling me �fabulous� (Apparently a fairly rare term she saves mostly for her homosexual friends � yes!!) Smacko had spilled booze or Kool-Aid all over his inspection shirt; he was still proud of it. Shelly kept insisting I could do better than Hillary, but I was all about the here and now, which is to say I have a penis. When we ran home, Smacko grabbed his bottle of cheap scotch (SCORESBY, the best fucking name I have heard in a while) and bolted. I started building resolve for another huge mistake in my life. It took over 12 hours. Then I broke up with Missy. This was perhaps an awful thing to do. She never even saw it coming, never could have, because I am not the type of person to share my feelings until they explode in a fiery molten ball of random. In fact, I was supposed to be driving down to St. Louis to meet with her for the day, but I�d already skipped out on that, so I thought, �Well, if she�s pissed about that, she�ll quickly forget when I give her this!� Good logic, chief. I tried to be honest, namely that I am batshit and that I am following my feelings and that my feelings were telling me that she was not the one. I had lots of reasons � I�m scared of the future mostly, that she would make a mistake and follow me and that things would blow up. That I, you know, constantly think about other girls, even if I don�t do anything (because I never could). That I�m fucking sick of the distance between us and how all it does is suck time and resources from us both. That Missy is somewhat of a lunatic, as evidenced by the fact that she is obsessed with me of all people. All of this made sense at the time, when I was drunkenly explaining it to Shelly and Smacko the evening before, but right there and then, with the sweet girl who only tried to be good for me all bawling and begging me to take it back, it did not feel so great. She did bring up the subject of the Medieval Times tickets - a subject I a) was very concerned about and b) was not willing to touch with a forty-foot pole - which just goes to show how considerate she truly is. And, this all begs the question, am I crazy, or am I Vince Vaughn crazy? Specifically Vince Vaughn in The Wedding Crashers crazy? Because he was with essentially this lunatic of a girl, but it turned out she was the type of girl he really wanted (�dug,� I think he said) all along. So, Lord know what I really want, except time alone, and now I have plenty of that. I spread the word to Kyle, Shelly, and Smacko, who did their best to keep me in good spirits. I thought it was sort of sweet of them. We hit up Red Lobster, by way of Jenise, and I believe I spent like 30 dollars, which was OK because ludicrous wasting of money seems to be the only thing that keeps me cheery. They got me this fucking Lobsterita, which came with some nice plastic beads, but the damn thing was like a gallon and a half of sour pain. We passed it around as best we could. The trainee waitress we had made some awkward suggestion about getting an appetizer � chicken tenders, specifically. I started laughing and pretty much had to get that shit then � and some lobster artichoke dip to dunk them in! Woe to you, food servers, on the evening when Nate Walsh is broken-hearted. I got some ridiculous seafood feast as well (Crab legs and popcorn shrimp what the fuck) and somehow managed to cram it all inside of me, happily aware that it would be spewing out my backside in a matter of minutes. The fat people at the next table over must have been loving us, as all night we were all loudly articulating on crack rocks and weed and what it would be like if one�s testicles were sliced open. I don�t know if I mentioned this, but Jason Kahn read a book or some shit, and now he isn�t going to sell drugs ever again. Of course, from what I also hear, he is doing lines of coke while reading these philosophy books, but still. Jason apparently supplied shitty weed to everyone in our immediate circle of acquaintances, so now all of us are lost in the mist. That Queen song came on again at the restaurant. It is not apparently following me everywhere. In a strange turn of events, Smacko was the only sober member of our party, so he was forced to drive the inspector mobile home. He nearly murdered us. No, seriously. Further notes: - �lol, did shelly imply she�d have sex w/ me� I�m not entirely sure what the �fucked again� part of the latter statement means, but I can at least decode the rest of it. Smacko wasn�t feeling too well and left, but I was well-determined to get trashed and find me some ass on my FIRST NIGHT OF SINGLE FREEDOM WOO (woo). So we ended up at the home of some baseball players, I guess, but immediately walked right past the crowd and up to the one entirely deserted room in the building. It smelled like vanilla. We sat around for a minute, and I explored the one mysterious closet (Shelly snapping pictures behind me so I could have briefest glimpses of the corpses or whatever), but all in all it wasn�t a great night. It turned out OK, though. I got sort of antsy and went for a bike ride, which was nice, because I was drunk and kept thinking about things like �fluid motion� and how �we are one and the same� (Again, my notes � I do not understand what they mean). It was relaxing, though, and it was sort of smooth, and the temperature just seemed right, and I was sort of wished I could type while I was riding because it seemed like the perfect environment. Yeah, so I was a little drunk What I really wanted, though, what I have been craving ever since, is the chance to be scared. I guess I was inspired by this horrible show on Nick GaS, �Scaredy Camp,� and how the little faggots on it were always running around terrified by noises and shit. So, when I say scared, I mean more like little kid scared. The only thing that really scares me these days are car accidents, and I�m not about to fuck with them. I just kind of miss the days when I was still sort of scared by fake things, ghosts and shit, and how noises and shadows could put me on edge. I saw a book at Barnes & Noble about the most haunted places in Illinois, and I think I might get and start visiting them. Alone. Heh, normally when I get drunk, I just get all horny and frustrated. Now that I have free rein to actually try to go and get some tail, though, the only thing I want is to be scared. TYPICAL, Nate Walsh. TYPICAL. My parents called, fairly late on in the day, and I didn�t answer because, in the state I was in, I�d somehow decided that Missy had called them and told them what happened and that they, knowing I would never break up with someone so perfect, would obviously think I had gone insane and were probably coming to take me away. Yes, makes perfect sense, that. I went upstairs for a while and downloaded Pavement�s �No Life Has Singed Her,� the song that sparked my fascination with the word �cunt.� Of course, I have no idea what gibberish Malmus is actually screaming there between chorus and verse, but in my mind it is something like, �You god damn fucking cunt!� which is just great. If you know what it actually is, you should tell me � or possibly not, because then you might be crushing a lifetime dream, I�m not sure. There was a stream of unbelievably good movies on for a while, by the by. I don�t know why I brought that up. Drugs and sleep-deprivation are the keys to success, I decided. Note that I said �sleep-deprivation� and not �sleepiness.� I love staying up, but I fucking hate being tired. Anyway, Shelly dropped off pretty early, and it was just me and Kyle for the rest of the night. It was sort of weird what we did, sitting there for hours, reading books and websites side-by-side, but maybe it was his way of comforting me. I enjoyed it, I will tell you that. I read this graphic novel he had, Blankets, and if I did not love it (it focused a bit too much on religion for my taste), it was sad and pretty and left me feeling sort of thoughtful. I'm frankly surprised I understood a word of it. (There were words in it, correct?) And Shelly was in the shower listening to the Shout Out Louds and the one song I normally do not like came on, and it was sort of sad and wonderful, too. Eventually I realized, well of course everything�s sad. Dumbass. Just like every fucking thing is going to remind me of her for a while. Kyle picked out Rhett Miller for our cruising in the Inspector Mobile, and on came "The El," the song during which Missy mistakenly grabbed my arm at the first concert. Our song, practically. Kyle and I have been up for hours. It�s weird watching him leap from tab to tab in Firefox with no apparent destination in mind. Whenever he got a little lost, he�d just run a search for fake nude pics of some celebrity and the whole process would begin again. He also started on a download of The Stink of Flesh, this zombie movie I honestly cannot wait to see. And of course the tire and putter on our porch. Maybe I was in the right mindset, thinking about fear or whatever, but I definitely heard some fumbling around on the porch. But I said nothing of it and thought, �Well, just wait for them to come in,� even if it was 3:30. Anyway, there was a knock on the door finally (or did I make that up?), and when I open it, this fucking gigantic tractor tire is propped up against the door frame. �Guys, the tire fairy came.� I�m fairly certain it was Andy who did the delivering (also there was a miniature gold putter resting inside of the tire) because of how damn surreal it was, but now the question is, what do we do with this tire? Shelly suggested the construction of a pool, but a tarp-covered tire of stagnant water sounds like a white trash mosquito nest waiting to happen. I thought it was far wiser to roll the thing across Green St. and see what happened when a car bumped into it. That�s apparently called murder, though, so I will abstain. There were some other little things that day � Star Wars LEGO game and I went to the Comm Library to do some work and then we drove to Wal-mart and rented Three Kings - but I�m telling you, the straw that broke the fucking camel�s back was at Wendy�s. We pulled up in the inspector mobile, and I got my Biggie-sized combo (because we all know what a comfort food is to Nate Walsh), and it turns out we�re fucked! They�ve taken the Biggie fries from the normal combo and moved them up a notch, giving the normal combo that tiny ass �medium� fry instead. Remove my Great Biggie fries, you fucks! Super-Size Me was like two years ago, you shitheads! You made it under the radar! Don�t fuck with my world! So I immediately began composing mental letters to the corporation, the phrase �rolling in his grave� appearing again and again. You do not treat a young man as such.
I won't be soothed, |