10/06/2005 - 9:30 p.m. | *mouthful of your hair*

I hate when I find these little rinky dink entries buried in my inbox. Meant to post this forever ago, and it wasn�t even good then, so now it�s just this even bigger pile of stupid. Anyway, enjoy!!!

9/23/2005, I think. Somewhere there.

Saturday was spent avoiding the world, Missy, everything. I set out some goals in my mind � get a new phone, go tan, shower, whatever � but I made no progress achieving them, taking nap after nap and watching an entire season of �Scrubs.� Luckily, the hours of lethargy led to a flash of brilliance: I remembered that Dank had recently gotten a new phone and that his old one was the exact same as mine! Not that I really expected to be deluged with calls that evening, but I have to keep the hold alive, you know? So, Spritz and I headed over to Dank�s place in the middle of Ghetto Hell, hacking our way through the bulletproof fence and onto his property.

Unfortunately, while my little card thingy did properly fit into Dank�s phone, T-Mobile had cleverly locked it from other wireless carriers, so I was SOL there. Luckily, Zouie also had an old phone and his happened to work, so I�m set for a time. I probably should get out there and find a new plan � or at least pay Zou for the lender � but I�ll probably continue to sit in sloth for a good time longer. Since we were there, we might as well grab some Dank Time, so all of us headed out to Perkins (of all places) for horrible combinations of the horrible foods they serve there. I don�t know what crazy motherfucker invented corned beef hash, but I hope you are writhing in hell somewhere for your crimes against humanity. No, I didn�t eat that. I had sensible tortilla soup with a single egg and a baked potato. SENSIBLE. Personally, I thought I was a riot, all talking about Captain Picard. �Why, he�s nothing but a flim flam man!� �A marshal of France? Ridiculous!� You have no idea what I�m talking about, but I someday hope to repair that.

How quaint that you don�t tell your story in order.
Now no one knows what�s going on! Good luck, editors!

I�d heard of nothing too intriguing going on that night, so I stayed at Dank�s for several hours, watching him play �Resident Evil 4� and yelling stupid shit. It is good to recreate old times. Finally, Spritz called (on the new phone!!) and said there was a rockin� party, so I decided to take off. And I mean that. Dank lives way over by Second and University and even walking at a quick pace would take like half an hour. As such, I sprinted my ass across campus! Stopping at appropriate times, of course, because getting caught doing something so socially damaging as running would certainly get me shunned by my peers and most likely beat up.

It was actually an ingenious plan, I admit. I am a terrible drinker, you know, but when I run, I can down just about anything afterwards. Chug chug chug. So I ran inside and did three fucking hellishly strong screwdrivers while watching Jumanji and then started hunting around for this party.

It was no fucking party.

First off, they were watching Jumanji, too, and that is not the groundwork for a kicking social event. Second, it was supposed to be a bathroom party (i.e. wear just a robe or towel), which has potential, but not when all ten people there are nasty trolls. Smacko, Spritz, Brytne were all pretty lit up, and I just tried to bide my time until my own salvation rolled in. This party was filled with douchebags, I swear.

On the plus side, Smacko had made a bet that he could finish a bottle of Scoresby in the space of an evening, and it looked like he might actually win it, too. Of course, ten bucks might end up being a small victory if he is hospitalized. Luckily, none of us had accounted for what a nefarious son of a bitch Spritz is, dumping over a third of the Scoresby bottle into a beer can and hiding it in plain sight. Of course, if Brytne ever reads this, she might want her ten bucks back. My bad.

Anyway, the party was pretty terrible, but for Smacko�s sloshing around, waving someone�s bottle of MD 20/20 (bling bling varietal) at guests in a threatening manner. Also, Spritz was pretty drunk himself, and feeling amorous, which is absolutely golden in situations where there is no one the least bit attractive around. He used to have Brytne, but now she had Dan, and his standards have sunk to horrible lows. I�m practically having to drag him away from this Kim Bebar creature in a pink satin robe as they play their little back and forth striptease game. �Dude, I was gonna see her tits!� �You did not want to see those tits, Spritz. None of us did.�

We dropped Smacko off at home (Well, I dropped Smacko off; Spritz dropped off this handicapped street sign � pole and all � he had grabbed from a parking lot) and then the two of us headed out, looking for more trouble. So, of course, Europa House. Spritz has the worst fucking destinations in mind when he�s drunk. Admittedly, it was pretty awesome when we met all those hot girls, and I had the accent working, but it�s all long gone now. So we pretty much buzz everyone in the building, and he tries to charm his way in, but no one around is having it. We continue to wander. We hear the sound of a fairly large party and wander in its direction, ending up in some horrible cul-de-sac parking lot. There is an old desk sitting there. Spritz rips out its draws and tosses them into the night. Some objects fall out. �Plane tickets,� I say. �Grab that shit, man. We�re gonna need it.� Um, all right.

Turns out he wasn�t half wrong. An envelope was hidden among all the boarding passes and whatnot � an envelope covered in basically every password this poor fucker Jordan Brown has ever had. Plans are already underway, I can assure you.

Anyway, we end up at some house Spritz says he�s been to before (I like how this qualifies us for entrance), and there is maybe one attractive girl there (Is this some sort of Urbana rule or did evolution just work out that way?), so we head to the keg. Somehow we are absorbed by these guys who possibly live in this house, one of them from Oregon, IL. �Do you guys want to do a beer bong?� Of course we do not, but I keep my trap shut and let Spritz dig his own hole deeper. �I�ve never done a beer bong before!� That is the absolute worst thing you can say to a drunk person. So an already-trashed Spritz is now down on his knees, downing another two beers in the space of eight second, and man alive Angel Santizo is there. Spritz calls him Dan Slade, though, and pisses him right the fuck off. �Dude, don�t ever call me Dan Slade.� They do look fucking hilariously alike, but I am not about to get in on this. By the way, if you don�t understand, it�s just lame IMSA stuff. Ignore it.

Spritz has the most severe case of �the grass is always greener� that I have ever seen. I suppose that this makes sense. I was fine staying at this lame party, pretending I�d work up the courage to talk to the pretty one (She was tall *sigh*). But Spritz is always sure something better is going on somewhere, and that he is totally missing out. His mind was fucked, however, so he assumed this better place was ISR. �We can yell stuff at drunk chicks.� I�m sure this will work out gloriously. We stop for cigarettes (might as well take another decade off your life while we�re at it) and then sit on the fucking benches in front of a fucking residence hall for God knows how long. And he doesn�t even shout shit at people. Like, I knew I wasn�t going to, but I thought he might get some balls, we�d meet some people, get invited up to a stupid dorm party with secretive drinking, something. Nope. Talks on the phone to Amber, leaving me there collapsed on a bench, singing to the sky. I�m such an emo drunk.

On the way home, we shake hands with a mud wrestler, and Spritz keys every single car in the Hendrick House parking lot. He collapses (or drunk drives to where ever he goes every night, I�m not sure), and I�m stuck drunk and alone, wishing I had someone to talk to. Or make out with. It�s then that I wish I could sleep the most, but I�m just too restless and sit there, hour after hour, doing nothing in particular. Bleh, I don�t like to think about it.