09/20/2005 - 1:03 a.m. | Your Not Drunk Until You Have To Hold On To the Grass To Stay On the Earth

Twelve voicemail messages! Twelve of them! In the space of like three days. And then, I fucking finally dig through that hell, and by the end of that day, there�s another four there, all from Missy. Shelly asked me the other day, �Why do you want to drink so much lately?� I explained, �The rule is, every additional message from Missy � e-mail, letter, postcard, and especially voicemail � is one more drink I have to have.� Let�s just recap our four from the day (as much of them as I listened to, anyway):

3:25 pm � Called just to say she missed me
7:10 pm � Called to wish me good luck with my first shift labsitting
10:30 pm � Called in honor of the time we usually talk (probably)
12:01 am � Called to commemorate the end of my first labsitting shift

Man alive, and this is when I gave her just one tiny chunk of my schedule. She calls the god damn minute I�m done! AHHH Imagine if she knew when I had class. �Good luck on the commute to your next class!� I know she�s just trying to show she cares, but this is turning into Police �I�ll be watching you� stalker shit.

Like I said, though, this just makes me want to get trashed (the unspoken hope being that I will become inebriated enough to cheat, thereby terminating our contract), and I believe I did a fair job of this weekend. On Friday night, Spritz and I started things off. Shelly got ill, and Kyle had to take the GRE the next day; both were out for the night. I went on a bike ride scouting for parties, but I think it only works when I�m not looking for them. Luckily, Brytne knew of some awful goon thing up at University Commons, so we told her to come get us while we hunted for Smacko. He�d sneaked off to Allison�s (obviously) and was outside with Andy and Shanks, using their grappling hook to swing off the balcony into various recycling bins. The neighbors were displeased.

Nearly got into our first fight of the evening (I missed the second, but apparently Smacko grabbed the drink Spritz was holding and chucked it at some guy across the street; Spritz, for his own part, later shot a pizza delivery guy with an airsoft gun). These two guys were walking down the opposite side of the street, wearing matching shirts and those little pins with the blinking red light on them. I started yelling about how they were the Borg (obviously) and so on in that sort of direction � e.g. please don�t assimilate me, resistance really is futile, your distinctiveness will be added into our collective.

Apparently you don�t call people the Borg. It is absolutely enraging. So, they come across the street, and because I think they�re cool Urbana people, they�re probably just coming over to talk about �Star Trek,� maybe even pantomiming the Borg zombie gait as a joke. Nope. They walk right up and shove Spritz (the shortest guy there � brave fellows) and start trying to start shit. Once again, shoving just confuses me, and I�m not fully aware a fight is brewing until it�s halfway over, but we start trying to talk our way out of this. In hindsight, I don�t know what the fuck we were worried about. It was four on two (five if you count Allison) and Andy is fucking huge � with a grappling hook. And a knife. And Smacko had positioned himself on the sidelines in case someone needed a sucker punch. Plus, one of them was hilariously short. I believe he did most of the talking, too. �Say it to my face! Say it right here to my face! Let�s go!� Uh� you�re the Borg? BAM

Clearly, these were not Urbana people. Champaign people do not like being reminded of the Borg (perhaps, on a deeper level, maybe knowing what the Borg are is what really upsets them � they don�t want to admit their �Star Trek� past). Anyway, they called us gay or something, and we had to talk them down, but they still gave us a pretty stern talking to, the message being that we would have been screwed if they weren�t such generally nice guys. We all realized afterwards we probably should have killed them. Sure, one of us may have been injured (most likely me or Spritz), but we�re running low on good old college fight time.

Brytne came, and we went to get Taylor before driving up to hell. We were pretty riled up from our encounter � Smacko wore a punch bowl on his head and was called a tool by a stranger, I got annoyed by this Asian who did not understand four way stops and leapt out of our car, pantomiming that he fucking needed to go, go! When we arrived, the party was in full swing, which is to say not at all. Jason Kahn was there, if that�s any indication of things to come.

So, I�m casing this place, and there�s one sort of cute girl over by the couch with her big fat friend, and she is maybe giving me eyes, so I think, �Now is the time to test my plan. Act confident and confidence will follow.� Six pricey apple ciders will aid in this process. So, I�m chatting them up a little bit (I steal a Nintendo 64 Rumble Pak at some point here), and finally one of them goes, �You don�t remember us, do you?� Er, should I? Apparently, these were the same two girls who came with Nigel (NIGEL!) to the Spanish party. You know, the one with the gin and stripping? Lord. OK, details are coming back to me (like I�d ever remember your actually faces), and I pull forth some details to prove I do recall them. �We were being total bitches to you that night.� Oh, you were? I don�t recall this specifically, but then I don�t recall the one sort of cute being this much less sort of cute either. I thought they were just being saucy. Now that I know the truth, however, I decide I need to get some revenge after the fact.

�So, how were you guys mean?�
�Well, you were really drunk, but you kept using all these big words, so we just weren�t very nice to you.�
�Plus, you kept offering us drinks, and why would we want them if we ended up like you?�
�You were sitting on a damp couch.�

Fair enough. Let the Nate Walsh Show fucking begin. Apparently being confident and being an asshole go hand in hand because, while I was downright chatty, I don�t think I said a nice thing for the rest of the night. First off, to avoid any further confusion about �big words,� I proceeded to define any term I used that was over three syllables. Example: I was describing my course of action to Jason Kahn in front of these girls, and I go, �So yeah, I�m just giving them the definition of any words they might not know. �Definition� meaning �what a word means.�� Wink. So, that was pretty obnoxious. And the one girl, the cuter one, introduced herself as Sarah � with something of a lisp � leading to me calling her �Thera� all evening long. The fat one made some sort of sarcastic comment about how she was �up here,� indicating that I should not be looking at her tits. I explained the joke to them � most jokes actually, since they could probably not understand humor if they didn�t get words - but I was not, in fact, looking at her tits. I have a lazy eye, and besides, her top was designed for as much of those huge lumps to leak out as possible, so I noted that for her as well. �Your classy outfit just screams �respect me as a feminist,�� I believe were my words. Plus, I was in a new social circle, one far less exposed to such rapid-fire use of the word �cunt,� so that got more than a few dropped jaws from them. I think my creative usage was part of this. �Cuntcicle� is a personal highlight.

Jason Kahn was loving me � he called me a �war monger,� which is about the first time he�s ever redeemed himself in my eyes. I kept calling him over to give me drinks of his wine, which was fucking awful, so then I would yell about that for another couple minutes. This one couple was fairly awesome. I would have done the chick, but her boyfriend was all in a black suit and tie, and he nodded at me when I first came in, so I knew he was cool. A gentleman always recognizes a gentleman, I�m told, and the two of them were very receptive to my assault-style conversation. There was this nerdy guy standing alone, so I called him over to me. �Get over here, chief.� In my drunken backward way, this was my attempt to reach out and help people. �What is your name there?� Jason. �Jason, I�m sorry I called you �chief� earlier. I was not trying to be a dick; I just did not know your name yet.� I tried to get him some ass from the giant ogre, but I soon reached the point where they were both scared off.

Most other people were just getting drinks, but I had enough mostly, although Brytne did once come over with a screwdriver so strong it was antiseptic. I choked most of it down anyway. Brytne, after lamenting the woes of being a designated driver, shut up after about ten minutes and started downing drinks herself. Wise choice.

Spritz and Smacko left early, and maybe I should have joined them, but there was this one girl � another Sarah, God � who was friends with the awesome couple and who I thought I�d better chat up further. For one thing, she was from England, even though her accent was quite imperceptible through my drunken fog, and for another she looked like Estella Warren. At least at the time. With pigtails. So, I was trying very hard to be friendly and non-suffocating, but of course I have no game, and she did not drink (although the cool couple was forcing her to, a move they might have made for my benefit) and had apparently had a bad experience where she had a beer once and this boy she did not even know tried to kiss her! Lord, I had no chance. At least I could prove to her that not all drunks are slimy lechers. I made a valiant effort. Who knows if she hated me? Interesting tidbit: apparently most people will tolerate you if you simply don�t move away from them.

Anyway, Brytne, who had not drank in quite some time, was completely blitzed, so we decided to bolt while the bolting was good. I was just fine with walking, but Brytne could not be swayed, and I was forced to take the wheel. I know, I know, but I�ve done fucking dumb shit before, and at least I am of legal drinking age. I was very careful. But of course we couldn�t go straight home either. Brytne wanted Perkins, so we drove there to get some food in our bellies and sober up, and I�m not sure how much any of that happened. It is a fortunate thing Brytne knows the manager because our asses would have been kicked out long before otherwise. Girl was stumbling all over, knocking everything on the table over, yelling across the room (�EMO FAGS!� Lord!), and we were powerless to do anything but watch. I crammed in carbs to keep me afloat, and we got out as quickly as we could.

Dropped Brytne and Taylor off with only the vaguest instructions of where to park (�22! 22!� Brytne kept slurring), so I just found the first available spot and started home. Booze got its second wind then and made the conversation with Missy pretty tolerable that night. Eventually passed out on the couch with Smacko and Spritz watching football or some shit. Did not drink any water. Wise mistake.

Woke up the next day at 7 or some hell to Kyle stomping around the house before his GRE. The boy does not know how to move quietly, it must be said. Felt the onset of a massive headache and stumbled into the kitchen for half a gallon of orange juice and a pee. Where had my pants gone? No time to worry. Have to fall back on the couch before this hangover is fully-realized. Grabbed some nasty hidden bottle of water I found in the bathroom and dumped it down my throat three hours later. Yes, this is probably mold-free. Collapse.

This was how the day was spent, trying to heal myself just enough to making another night of drinking possible. The closest thing I had to a productive activity was using fingernail polish to paint the letters back on my keyboard. I thought it was fairly ingenious at the time, although the smell got my headache rolling. What is the best cure for a headache, though?! More drinking!

Maybe I should have just puked, but then my stomach would have been in turmoil all day. At this point, I was ready to hit more apple cider even. Which I did. I hid out in my room again for pregaming, as I always do. Weird nostalgic music choice for the evening consisted of Nick Lowe. I was eventually lured downstairs to help Shelly navigate Silent Hill. Smacko was loving the anti-logic that is the puzzle system of the game. �Dump the canned orange juice down the garbage chute onto the corpse to get the Old Man Coin!�

It vaguely occurs to me that Saturday was the night of Hot Michelle�s pseudo-birthday, which I was invited to. Actually, it was on my mind a fair amount, but it is a lot cooler to say it only just came to mind. Anyway, I guess H. Michelle and her friends were actually out on our porch pregaming, and I guess I knew that the whole time, but did I join in? Did I follow them to the Highdive? Well, fuck. No. For one thing, no one really told me they were coming or that I was allowed to be out there with them. Spritz didn�t tell me, neither did H. Michelle herself. Kyle was the one who passed it on, only to note how God awful annoying her Asian friends were. So maybe I didn�t miss out. Yeah, OK. So I�m weird about things. No big deal.

Kyle stayed in again, and Spritz went out with Amber (another well-grounded plan), leaving me and Smacko and Shelly to our own devices. We�ve got a nice twisted little love triangle set up, though, so we just fell back on that shit.

See, I think Smacko and Allison should hook up, as they have this weird violent sort of flirtation going on. Besides, Smacko�s forays into the singles world have been about as fruitful as my own, and if anybody should be getting some, it�s Smacko. However, Shelly has this theory that Allison still wants to do me, which is why she hangs around with Smacko, an opportunity to encounter me more often. Of course, I am doing the same thing, backwards, using Allison to get to Hillary because I have strange intentions of hitting that. And I can�t see how it will really end well for anyone, unless Allison changes her intentions, I suppose, which I am trying to aid by ignoring her, but who knows if that will only make things worse? I apparently already made the most dreadful mistake of saying I was too crazy for anyone to be with, the most attractive thing any one person can say, I�ve heard.

Anyway, this will be a right mess someday, but it gives us good social opportunities right now, so we partake. Walk over to Eric Szxczxceniak�s old apartment (Good times!) for some party in support of U of I�s sad little satirical paper. As former co-editor-in-chief of IMSA�s like-minded publication, you�d think I�d be supportive. I was not. I pretended to tie my shoe and then did a little roll out of the way while everyone else paid for cups. Heh � I forgot Jevon was there as well.

Also, did I ever tell you guys the crazy bump in my wrist, the ganglion cyst, just up and left one day? The human body is nuts.

Anyway, I was pleasantly drunk at this point, sort of happy being near or around Hillary and Jasmine. I�m sure my word-for-word knowledge of �Hollaback Girl� only confirmed Jasmine�s beliefs about my sexual orientation. And I dance like a re-re as well. Shelly, meanwhile, started a cruel new game where she�d come up to me, point out a fat girl, and force me to picture them naked. Now perhaps �force me� sounds a little harsh � how could she get in my head as such? � but I�ve mentioned before how suggestible I am, and there was nothing I could do but take in the horror. Lord, Shelly, not fucking Ruth, too!

The music at the party was lame, and there was not much dancing, and no one was willing to give me weed, but you know me. I was content in the happy stomach pain that is a crush. I was in the minority, it seemed, because everyone else wanted to move on to bigger and better things. I subtly hinted that Allison, who was coming with us, should invite her friends along (Shelly giving me knowing looks over her head), but lord help us drunks are slow, and we got out on our way alone.

Actually, our own party of drunks were miserably slow � Allison especially � so most of my evening was spent with Shelly, wandering around and waiting for them to catch up. I don�t know where we ended up with a porch swing, but we flew on that for a while and then tried cracking their buzzer code to get in. Wandered a little further and then waited on the curb, watching the cretins stream by.
I don�t know where she got the fucking thing, but Allison had this huge awful plastic pirate gun she kept trying to pawn off on other people. �Could you hold this for me for a while?� and then she would take off into the night. I carried it in my pants for a time, but I didn�t want everyone to think I had a huge erection (or did I?) so I eventually slipped it to Shelly.

Through the weirdest connection imaginable (Jevon knowing Yousaf�s brother), we somehow all got our names on a fairly exclusive list at some frat afterparty. If that were my sort of thing, I would have been impressed. Sadly, I was not. I dunno � I love mindless dancing and all, but there is too much intention at frats. Like, if I had gotten involved, I feel like bad things would have happened. And even though I am secretly wishing for these things, I would prefer for them to happen as a result of my wit and charm � not the fact that it was dark and I actually approached you. While everyone scouted around for beer (Shelly being all sly-like and such), I wandered in the abyss and wondered if I would ever feel comfortable in this sort of setting. It�s one thing to act like a confident asshole at that party the night before. On the old mental chessboard, I have a distinct advantage in those areas. Here, however, I am uncool, unhot, and generally unwilling to even pretend like I am. So when this girl is dancing by her lonesome up on one of the stripper pole platforms (yes, that was plural), grinding her reasonably flat tummy in my face with her shirt lifted, I�m plenty willing for orange polo shirt to step in and take the hit for me. She even seemed interested later, but lord, what kind of girl is interested in me? Make note of that, future lit classes studying my works. What kind of girl is interested in me? That�s the main idea of pretty every page I�ve ever written.

Shelly had been downing beers for some time now, but it appears she finally cracked the Omega Code and got herself the exact right amount of drunk. Silly and stupid and giggly and affectionate without all the hell of collapsing and throwing up in garbage cans (and crying). We eventually all reconvened outside. Jevon was not drunk enough, Smacko was all rubbing up on Allison (It�s on, I thought. It�s on!), Shelly was getting a little loopy, and I had no real reason to stay myself. After a weird huddle in the grass of Frat Park, we started home, Allison and company instantly trailing behind. Shelly and I took a break and sat Indian style in the middle of the sidewalk on Fourth � plenty of drunken attention for that. We eventually regrouped again, shortly before Smacko walked Allison home and Allison sent me a random unwarranted IM. �Smacko is sleeping on the fouton.� Oh, it�s so on.

But it fucking wasn�t. Damn it all.

Shelly and Jevon and I strolled home in decent spirits, and we played some more Silent Hill. I would sort have liked to have hit H. Michelle�s for her afterhours (OK, maybe the weed specifically), but that would have been weird and rude, so I went to bed. A little lonely perhaps, but I also sort of really like being drunk and lonely.

Uh, the two days since have been reasonably lame. Work on Sunday, school on Monday. I was fairly proud of myself today in 452; Peter Sheldon finally laughed at one of my ads (he does not laugh at much of anything) and praised me for my interest in product research. I�d spent the previous two days looking up shit about God damned Mitchum Antiperspirant � chemical formulas and everything � and it turns out I still can be intellectually stimulated by things. Like, I had no idea how antiperspirant worked, but when I did, I found it really strangely interesting and wanted to convey that passion to the theoretical audience. Maybe it didn�t work, but I�m trying. And I think Lukeman got shit on more than I, so ha! It�s nice to be doing well at something again. I�ve just been coasting for so long, but I�m really hoping this will be the semester I turn things around. I forgot to mention � I signed up for a research project on depression with my professor from hippie psych. He is a creepy skeleton of a man, but he is good intentioned, it might help with the double major (This is hope again), and � man alive � the topic is something I want to know about. A hopeful trend.

With luck, this can only get better, as Kyle, Shelly, and I have started taking smart pills. Well, rather, a series of smart powders and counteragents mixed with orange juice or Ovaltine, but you get the fucking idea. Now, I have no idea what any of this shit is, what it does, or even what it�s called really, but Kyle has been reading about it on the forums, and I�m giving him a lobster dinner for my share of the first supply. The main thing is called something with a P, and it�s supposed to have all sorts of crazy effects. Besides making your memory better, regulating sleep patterns, and giving you a profound motivation to learn and do shit all productive-like, this junk is also supposed to make alcohol and weed tons more effective, which seems like a money saver in itself. Of course, it�s also supposed to, like, eat away at your neurotransmitters, so you�ve got to take this choline stuff, or you�ll get headaches. And the choline might make you smell like fish, but I guess that is a relatively small price to pay for genius. On top of that, we�re taking this other four letter acronym shit that is also supposed to help with memory and give you lucid dreams, so who knows? I might be a superior being in a matter of days. Of course, it could counteract with one of the many other things I put into my system, turning me into Aquaman, but I guess that is a risk we all take. It does not taste great, even diluted, sort of like metal, but then we just made a cocktail of random chemicals � how good could it taste? After drinking it, I had that same expectant feeling I get from alcohol, like, �When is this going to kick in?� but I will keep you posted on any results. Unless I am too busy dancing in the corner to Strawberry Alarm Clock, swatting at psychedelic butterflies and the like.