12/03/2005 - 5:26 p.m. | Trying to get my mansions green

Glorious, glorious. Ooh, now I know I had stuff to write about last night just a little moment ago. It's there, you just give me a little ramble time to catch my thoughts. Or I can just fake it.

(Also, I apologize for the psuedo-philosophy last evening - I don't know what got into me... OH YES I DO)

I entered myself in some sort of weird little triathlon yesterday. I did the usual run and tan, which is fine (although I have never run in such cold before - I swear it was a lot harder than usual... Maybe my lungs froze. As did my knees. And like six people told me to put on more clothes. Thank you, concerned masses), but when I got home to recover, I realized I had a psych meeting to go to, so I flew over there on my bike at top speed. Then, well, it's not like I'm going to puss out now, so I decided to take all seven flights of stairs, even though that kills me on a good day. So I get up there and collapse for a few, finally crawling out to meet with the dude. Meeting's postponed. Yay! Back down the stairs, back across campus, collapse in a heap on the bed. My thighs are burning right now, tee hee.

A dull few hours followed before anyone could be convinced to start doing anything. Drank most of a beer slushie in the shower, shaved my balls, and ran out to the store with Shelly for supplies. BARBARossa is the new king of rums, my friends. Actually, he is quite a shit, but we�ll let him think he's all right. I had a drink concoction all set to go, but first I coerced Shelly into going to Arby's with me because I can't eat unless someone else is eating with me. I know, it is a bad form of anorexia, forcing everyone else to get fatter so's I don't feel so bad, but it's either that or starve, right?

We crammed in as much booze as we could in the remaining 90 minutes before setting off into the world. The cell phone flask was put into play for the first time. "I have a collect call from Drunk. Will you accept the charges?" I was most displeased with my hair, so I started drunkenly lopping off offending bits. Then I coated it with mousse (not mine, lord - Shelly's) to the point where it was a crunchy mess. Perfect! If only wearing the "No Fear" hat, the only hat I own, would not have been a greater embarrassment. Actually, come to think of it, I was sort of off in my appearance overall. My cowboy shirt's buttons seemed too far apart, so either I had it overbuttoned like a dork or my chest spilling out like a porn star. It might work for Rhett Miller's hairless chest, but it does not for my own.

Today's stupid bit of nostalgia: Microsoft Bob, lol. There was a useful program if ever there was one. FINALLY I CAN BUILD A HOUSE FOR ALL MY ICONS! Everyone hates that little Microsoft Word paperclip, but it has nearly been forgotten that he was the last surviving vestige of a dark legacy. I'm thinking about tracking a copy down on eBay. I think modern technology would blow Bob's fucking mind:

Me: Open Winamp
Bob: WHAAAAT
Bob: DO U WANT A PET?????
Me: No, Bob, I want to hear this song
Bob: HOW ABOUT A SURFBOARD... IN THE KITCHEN :O

Anyway, back to business. We scrambled over to Brytne's old place for Emily's birthday party. While everyone else piled into the gas station for cigarettes (and chocolate milk), I stayed outside finishing my drink, mostly unaware that this truck full of toughs (OK, they were probably not that tough) was yelling shit at me. Finally, I walked over to them ("Easy, tiger") and we had something of a surreal conversation.

"Is that Bicardi and punch?" they ask, in regards to my drink. "Close enough," I say. What a weird fucking drink. Maybe I will make one tonight. YOUR FINEST PUNCH SIR "Where is the post office?" they ask. "I think it's probably closed by now, man." "Where is it, though?" I give them directions to the one on Green St. "But you think it's closed?" "Yeah, I do." "Well, we've really got to get this shit shipped out. Tonight." They've been alluding to this shit for some time now, just itching for me to ask about it. I will not give them the pleasure. "I guess you could go to the FedEx-Kinkos." "Great idea, man! Where's that at? We gotta get this shit out." "OK, just go to Green and Wright--" "Go right on what?!" Thank you, Abbott. Costello is blowing some dude in an alley. So I start over, and one of them is like, "I think the real question is, where's the grass?" I still love that term for it; it sounds so outdated. "I have no idea. Our own supply in Urbana is weak at the moment." "Got any junk?" "No junk, my friend." "Aw, fuck it." They drive off, still shouting drugs at me. "Acid? Is there acid?" I don't care if you thought that story was boring. It was weird.

Uh, party one. Old ghosts haunt that place in my mind, so I sort of assumed it would be the same six people as usual. It was, but a fair few were there besides. Sgt. Pepper ran up to speak with me, even though I do not know his name, and it is doubtful he knows mine. Andy asked if I wanted a martini, and I said yes without really thinking. As he mixed it, I sort of hoped it would be the crazy Andy Quitmeyer equivalent of a martini - grape soda and Snapple with a Now and Later twist or something. Nope, straight gin. I nearly kaked (OK, I do not know how to properly spell this synonym for vomit... Webster's was entirely unhelpful, and in Urban Dictionary it apparently is how people in Boston say "cock") but managed to choke off most of it into a red cup, which I then placed in an undisclosed location. OK, party time!

I do not have many interesting party details to tell you. For some reason, this party tried to go legit, with food and shit there, including these nasty little sausages that someone (Shanks?) kept burping back and fogging up the air with. There was a flashlight whose proportions were so immense I cannot even begin to describe them to you. We could have signaled boats is all I'm saying. Many were blinded. I talked to the usual people and kind of drank whatever was passed to me. Light dancing to follow.

Smacko passed by at some point, and I caught a whiff of something. "Smacko, did you do another shot of Listerine?" "No... Maybe... Yes." He grins. Allen Wittman, who I do not see ever anymore, appears for like five minute windows... to make Smacko drink mouthwash.

Out on the smoking porch I gave Sgt. Pepper my jacket because I am so fucking chivalrous. He probably thinks I'm gay, but we're actually on fairly even ground because he mistakenly said something that sounded like he wanted a dick in his mouth. I can't remember the context entirely, but I was like, "That drink tastes like dong," to which he went, "Yeah, I might want it in my mouth, but that doesn't mean I want to taste it." It was better than that, though, really.

Then the dancing began. Led by Andy, who is the master of the spastic (yet strangely beautiful) series of random flailings and gyrations. We did our helicopter thing (whereupon he spins and tosses me around the room at breakneck speed - I actually have whiplash, come to think of it) of which there are some pictures, and Alan Ruck (Cameron from Ferris Bueller's Day Off) was there in some fuzzy boots, going just about as psychotic. Actually, it was a rather weird guest list overall, partially because Kitty was having people from her German class (read, lots and lots of goths and fatties). There was this gaunt greasy-haired middle aged-looking guy that kept trying to dance up on everybody. That was unnerving. Ooh - and some real life gay dudes all kissing and snuggling and stuff! Yay! And I know someone went nuts when �House of the Rising Sun� came on, and that is the fucking strangest thing ever. I know one other man who did that, and he is the craziest drunk in the world. Jimmy, I salute you. May your horseshoes and Jello shots never err. Tebben and Allison were there, but not really, as I guess you have to have a soul to be anywhere, right? She ate his, get it? Taylor sat on my lap (oof) and then splayed herself across like four of us, giving each bladder problems in turn. Waxy beef jerky beer, I'm told, and of course it's not one of those parties unless someone tries to get me to strip. In this case Andy just tore my shirt off and started yelling, "Look at his pierced belly button! Look at it!" which I guess is as good of a strategy as any. Cards were thrown, Dustin finally remembers my name, and this Indian guy kept dancing up on Shelly, giving her hits straight from his bottle of vodka. Oh, this will be good. At least he was drinking from the same bottle. No roofies! Or, no roofies he was not unwilling to ingest himself!

That's right, a triple negative, you cunts.

Brief interlude: There was this fat Asian guy at Schnucks as we entered the parking lot, carefully adjusting his hair. That shit was real funny for some reason. Yes, parted down the middle.

Shelly was right trashed, by the point, so it was my responsibility to keep her upright and unraped (not that I don't trust you, Dustin's giant awkward friend) as we walked towards the next place. For her part, she kept giving me kisses. One was dangerously close to my ear (aka Boner Zone), and I let her know that her giving me an erection would be the creepiest thing I could imagine.

The party belonged to [Ah-bin] and [Robin], who idolize both Smacko and Spritz, so we were pretty much in like Flynn. There were lots of Indian girls at this place. You know how I feel about Indian girls. There was one girl, I couldn�t tell what she was, but she was pretty enough that I made her my loser focus for the evening (as in, �Oh yes, this one is definitely checking me out!�) She was too, I swear, even while she was talking to some douchebag at the drunken gaming table. I liked her striped sweater. It made her boobs look good. Ha. Anyway, I might have tried going up to the table, ostensibly to play some drinking games (y�all know what I�m talkin� about), but Shelly and Brytne were all over me � Shelly because she was drunk and could not stand upright on her own, Brytne because she was alone and did not want to seem desperate. So I was stuck. But as I sat there, sipping my drink and kind of spacing off as Shelly drooled on me, I thought to myself, OK, best case scenario, what could happen? I go over to her, build up the courage to talk, she does like me, we make out, she touches my dong, is greatly disappointed when it is non-functional, awkward conversation tomorrow, so on and so forth. She was cute, but not that cute. The looks were enough. What else is new?

As you can see, nothing much has changed. I�m pretty much off the meds now (until I get this psych mess sorted at least), and I still think about messing around on Missy. Maybe the problem really is legit then. Maybe it�s that she started calling 80 times even when I do answer the phone, IMing all the time, too. Who can tell?

Spritz and I traded Shelly-guarding shifts after a while. She continued with similar behavior, and Spritz seemed quite unnerved by it � especially the kissing. I don�t remember exactly what he said, but he was quite anxious or fearful. Like, �I don�t know why she�s doing this� I just hope no one finds out� or some shit. His reaction is so confusing to me. But then, Spritz is probably a lot less likely to randomly kiss friends than Shelly or I, so maybe he doesn�t get it. Damn it, I�m so God damn gay. Oh well.

The retard bus is a difficult one to steer, but we eventually got out the door and on our way with everyone tumbling over on the ice and snow a mere two or three times apiece. Luckily, Taylor�s was across the street and we met there to regroup and get our shit together for the rest of the night. As Shelly might say, �Yuh roit.� We weren�t fucking going anywhere. Graham crackers were passed out, and I was yelling offkey to some Liz Phair pumped out of Taylor�s laptop, using the model skull as a hand puppet, and things seemed more or less through. Disappointing.

Brytne and Fitz are dating, you'll be glad to hear. What a weird twist of fate, Shelly and Kyle's awful exes getting together as such. When Brytne told me about their date, I was like, "You know how voice is the most awful thing on the planet, right?" "It's endearing." My foot - and I do not have nice feet. But, she got called by him and left (I think) and then Smacko got called by Allison. Maybe I was cockblocking � I hope not � but I asked to come along. I was just bored and did not want to stay in that wretched place when I had so much energy. On the way out, I grabbed a phone book sitting by the mailboxes and starting ripping out pages and tossing them on the ground (�in case anyone wants to follow us�). I�m not sure how it got started exactly, but we started to jog, then run (except I couldn�t keep up � I am all distance and no speed), me ripping out pages all the while. It was sort of surreal, but I guess that was my intent.

We got to Legends right as the bar was closing (also surreal to my chemical-addled brain). Allison�s friends were leaving, and in theory we were all getting a ride back together. I was not so far gone to realize this would not work � especially when we got to the dude�s car, and it was filled with like hundreds of batteries and a clarinet case or some shit. OK, those details are lies, but the main idea is still there: Smacko and I were SOL on the ride front. Plus, dumbass Allison kept trying to make time with me, which is just hurtful to all parties involved. �Nate and I will walk back together.� �No we won�t you stupid drunk.� Anyway, it ended with me and Smacko deep in the heart of Champaign, our mission, uh, pretty much entirely failed.

Not that there weren�t adventures on the way back. For instance, Smacko invented a new game where he pointed at every girl and said whether or not he would do them. His standards also went up by about a million percent, if only because it afforded him the opportunity to point at each sorority girl in a large pack going, �NonononononoNO.� A little further on, we stopped at the Union to try and catch a SafeRide. I guess that late at night they lock the inner doors, so you can still get into the vestibule, but no further. Anyway, Smacko started pounding on the window, drunkenly demanding to know information about the next time they�d be coming around. Apparently the time they told him was a bit long, as he turned to me and went, �Fuck that. You best get out of here, nigger. Some shit�s about to go down.� I know enough not to question these sage words, so I strolled out casually as I could. Smacko, meanwhile, pulled out his dong and started pissing right there in the Union. This enraged the black janitor (who had been watching us with mirth mere moments earlier), but he didn�t have keys to get through the doors either, so he could do nothing but pound on the window while Smacko pissed on and smiled. The offending pisser took off to catch up with me (and avoid a broomstick up his ass), screaming at all passerby thereafter, �Don�t piss in the Union! It will get you arrested!� We made some battle plans before splitting up for the evening and, of course, I couldn�t sleep.

OK, this one is weird. Didn�t mention this before (shame), but I play this stupid little online tic-based RPG called �The Kingdom of Loathing.� No need to go into it � you can find out for yourself if you�re at all curious, but the thing is, today I happened to win a lottery for 10,000,000 dollars in the game�s fake currency. I am lucky at such weird things. Anyway, I guess this is supposed to be pretty good news (I had like 50,000 before I won the thing), but it�s actually put me in a virtual existential crisis. I don�t know what to do with my little guy anymore. Before, he had his little shallow in-game existence � kill monsters, get items, sell shit for a little scratch, eat and drink. Now he has all this money, and he doesn�t know what to do with it. Maybe he should try investing it somehow � starting a store in the mall or� I don�t know what� but I am not a business-savvy type of guy, I�m not, and it seems way over my head, even in something so silly as this game. So then I�m like, well, maybe I should buy all the best stuff � crazy rare weapons and accessories or something � be a badass. But that just seems like vapid materialism, like I could do better. Frankly, I�m sort of sick about the whole thing � I kind of want to blow all my virtual money on virtual booze and get virtual fucked out of my gourd, virtually forget the whole thing ever happened. And then it got me thinking about the bigger picture � where is my guy going with his little life? He�s going through the same set of adventures as everyone else, and he�s not clever enough to distinguish himself in a real way, but not shallow enough to try and do so in a stupid way (by collecting more broken helmets than anybody or whatever), so what the fuck should he try and do? Be the best at one thing? Someone will always top him � there are lists and rankings to prove it. More money, more power, bigger collections of stranger things? Fuck, man, this allegory was getting too deep for me.

I went down to watch Shelly puke for a while. It�s so operatic. Three hours of misery and gibberish and whoosh, you�re finally done. Is it wrong to say I was actually having fun sitting in there with Kyle, making jokes? Probably. Someone broke the bar on the towel rack, which I filled with shaving cream and aimed like a primitive blowgun. You must be very drunk or very stupid to find something like that amusing. Luckily, I was both. Hurr hurr, it looks like green boogers. Slowly, I got into bed, listening to albums for a couple of hours, staying awake only enough to move the pointer around a little every now and then, prevent that standby from starting up. For some reason the monitor reminded me of Christmas more than anything I�ve seen in a while. The colors and the light. I am a stupid faggoty drunk.

Missy and I have this nice rule that, in theory, should make things very easy. If I don�t feel like talking to her (for whatever reason, and I always have plenty), I just let her know � rather than, say, ignoring her calls for three days � and she�ll let me be. Like I said, though� �In theory.� We talked last night at like 3. She called less than 10 hours later, when the only things I had accomplished were sleep and crawling out of bed in agony for a meal. I ignored it. Then she IM�d later on looking for another call. �Missy, I haven�t done shit all day. I have nothing to talk about.� And she gets all pouty (�but I miss you!�), and now she�s calling in like five minutes where we will sit and say the same old standard garbage we always do. Blech. So, apparently, rule is, if I don�t feel like talking to her, I don�t have to� unless she really wants me to. It�s like she always saves it for the weekends, too, when I�m most likely to be thinking about the game and other girls. Really giving me some fond memories there, girl. Let�s talk about our long-term plans, too! That�s sure to keep me from sticking my tongue down some other girl�s throat! I am starting to feel trapped. By a girl 500 miles away.