01/10/2006 - 3:03 a.m. | you know, you know - no you don't, you don't

I am staring at this list of 13 entries I decided needed writing (�loooord� is the name of the textfile), and I am beginning to wonder, do they all really need the full Nate Walsh treatment? If we think of each in terms of the usual amount of detail and digressions, that�s almost a hundred pages I would have to sit here and tap out. Which is fine, I guess, but I don�t think every one of them needs it. So, I�ve divided up the list a little bit, and I am going to write bits and pieces here and there. Think of it as a bowl of Lucky Charms with just the marshmallows � none of that pencil shaving garbage.

First off, I have invented a dance called the Pencil Sharpener. If you were to perform it, a five mile radius would form around you of people you could never, ever sleep with. And then just wait for the fallout.

Back when I was still in my social psych lab, we were all supposed to design an experiment to run for the semester (or that was how it was explained to me). For mine, I decided to use AIM profiles as reflections of the inner psyche. Nothing so clearly presents a prepared statement to the world like the deliberate bullshit everyone puts in their profile. �This is how I want to be seen,� etc. Well, I only collected like a week�s worth of data before I dropped the class, but I�ve been wondering if I should just jump to some conclusions and present what I thought of the 40 or so who�ve made it to my buddy list. If you were really interested, I could probably give you a summary of a specific person, but for now, I�ll just mention some archetypes:

1) The Desperate Case � Call, visit, here is my contact information! You will no doubt be searching for it at a future date! Speaking of which, what is coming up in my life? Never the present, always forward, forward! Here is what I am doing right now! Also my emotions! A frowny face indicates that something is wrong with my situations. ASK ABOUT THEM!

2) The Skeez � Gross things are funny.

3) The Accomplished � Here are the things I am good at and have done. I will list them for you and your records. Also, here some funny quotes � not from my friends (they are usually the straight man), but because I am goddamned hilarious.

4) The Artfag � You have no idea what I am talking about! Random numbers and words strewn about. It gives me an air of mystery and makes me seem smart� probably. Also, you have not heard that song? You retard!

5) The Delusional Lover � If I post how much I less than three you (with a Lifehouse quote here and there for good measure), it�s all probably true. Perhaps if I post this vague, carefully-aimed quote in my profile, the crush I have been pining for will read it and finally understand my love!

Most people are a combination of these things. Next topic.

Shelly, for whatever reason, decided it would be totally BA if she were to be an engineer � an engineer who went out six whole nights in a row!! Since I was the main one to go along with her on this retardation, I was going to chronicle the whole thing, but it occurs to me that most of the nights were very, very fucking boring, chugging dollar bottles in silence at Legends and shit. I�m trying to remember them all, and I�m not even sure I can. One night she came to work with some delicious chicken for me while I got hosed. We rode the bikemobile to Firehaus for a single drink and then encountered a tipsy Fitz on the way home. Actually, I do not know if he was drunk � his voice is confusing like that � but I felt very appeased that it sounded just as silly and cartoonish when I was sober. They stood there picking at each other�s insecurities like all ex-couples do, and I had to keep my roaring laughter down to wavering smile. Another night we went out late, after midnight, to Murphy�s with Brytne and her friends, eventually ending up at Dustin�s for � what else? � impromptu flippy cups and beer pong? He even managed to get girls there, but I was too busy helping stumbly Shelly to worry about that. LIKE IT WOULD MATTER Shelly was finally imbibed with the gift of mischief, as I remember her prying the flash reflector off of one of those road construction signs (It is in our fireplace now). The final night we made our glorious return to bingo � except there was very little to be called glorious about the whole thing. Although the new caller was wise enough to introduce himself to Team Tourettes and shit on all the Asians and artfags half-heartedly playing, he was specifically not allowed to swear (According to his tale, he had been caught drunkenly jaywalking out of Legends one night, cussed out the po-po, and had since been assigned a probation officer � some black guy who I guess had to sit around and make sure he didn�t swear anymore� it seems nearly weird enough to be true). Nobody was excited, nobody knew the calls, and even though it was a 300 dollar game night, nobody was fucking there. I am arrogant enough to think this all falls back to us.

The description in my little list here is good enough to start off on:

�7. the thanksgiving saturday of crying and therapy�

I may have alluded to this slightly here and there, but now we�ll go on with the (semi-) full story. If you�ll recall (you won�t), the Friday evening following Thanksgiving, my mother stormed into my room, sobbing, telling me I should just go back to school and not come back to Christmas.

Obviously, there was to be aftermath.

Long story short, it was the same noise we�d dealt with over spring break or thereabouts: meds were tainting my soul, making me indifferent, tensions in the household, etc. I didn�t tell them at the time, didn�t tell them until a couple of weeks ago actually, but I was already off the meds, the first bits of them already washing out of my system. I don�t like to use phrases like �emotionally-draining,� so I�ll just say that my little title there pretty much hit the hammer on the head. Actually, that�s not quite all. Things had finally calmed down a little, and my mom asked me how I liked the Christmas tree (she�d put it up while I had been sleeping). I told her the truth � that I thought it was orchestrated and that I missed the eclectic trees of my youth. Wrong answer, apparently. More crying, more therapy. Anyway, it all sparked this whole quasi-interest I have in finding a therapist. Mostly I just want a neutral person who�ll agree with me. You think on that a moment.

Last one: The standard �hell week� (as everyone calls it) didn�t seem nearly so bad as the one directly preceding it. Details are mostly at a loss, but I remember this like 3 day no sleep bender, trying to make ads on this tardbox and then Kyle�s, instead staying up for our �Little Troopers� double feature (Super and Starship), stumbling from place to place (on ephedrine?), collapsing melodramatically in my ad class with pure charming madness (wordy madness, but still charming), my eyes darting in different directions, riding through the tundra, screaming because I did not care. Did I recount this all to you? Sheldon posted all of the projects we turned in to get into the class. Nobody could figure out anyone�s � except mine, for it had like four times as many words as the rest of them. Front and back, tiny handwriting, a fair proportion of it unnerving. Sometimes I think I am in the wrong field.

Anyway, I remember clearly that I had promised to go watch Pulp Fiction with Smacko and his film class (and their rambling Indian pimp of a teature). He had been told he could bring beverages with screw-on lids. Of course this immediately popped into his head as ice cold forties (or foties, if you�d prefer). We�d planned ahead and smuggled some in, and though it was stupid to drink such a copious amount on no sleep with no food and only a handful of pills, who the fuck am I to back out of a promise? Well, a promise I am keen on anyway. Short story, I got blitzed and rode home cackling and mad, yelling about getting some chili when I stormed in. No one was prepared for my antics, so I devoured three bagels and passed out for six hours with �Scrubs� blaring on my lap. It�s weird as shit to wake up at 1 am with a hangover.

There we go. Now back down to an ever-increasing nine entries that still need to be written. I�m sure there were plenty of other tales I meant to throw in in the process, but this was practically a respite for you, huh? As a reward, I would like some sour cream and onion potato chips, preferably of the baked variety.