02/09/2006 - 8:21 p.m. | and look at this - she can read, too!

It's weird having depression back in my life. Maybe because it's always there. Thank God it's so easily blocked, that most anything can distract it: songs, reading, TV, homework, normal stuff - because it's bad enough dealing with it every time there's even a little silence. And it's nothing so severe that I want to die or lock the door and sleep my life away... There's just this urge to fold. And I don't mean fold like in poker, you're out or whatever, I kind of envision bending in half to the point where I collapse in on myself and become a harder, more closed version of me. Maybe I won't be so susceptible to the things that bother me then, I guess.

What this probably means is I want the meds back, but we are not letting in to that little whim any time soon. I'm far too involved in this little love-hate relationship with these feelings of, like, hollowness, bitterness, I don't know what. I like that I'm messed up - maybe I don't like actually feeling messed up, but I seem to enjoy it that I am. It makes me feel rarer, I guess. And I know, I'm such an emo kid, and I should just shut up. Maybe I could if just something great would happen. Like I said, I like the stupid little good things way too much to not enjoy life, but I just feel like I haven't had a big good thing in a long, long time, and that makes me feel all sorts of things. Annoyed, bitter, envious, sort of sad and empty.

Maybe this is why I've been putting off diary entries all week. These bad feelings have been sort of all-pervading (albeit at different levels), and I didn't want this to turn into some livejournal bullshit. Well, far too late for that now.

I guess last last Friday is the first thing that came to mind. See, I'm being very careful, because I know it makes me feel better to drink... or at least it makes me feel different when I drink, and different is something right now... but it feels like all around people are getting sucked in by their vices. Kyle can't have a conversation without talking about bumps, Shelly's downing coffee twice a day, and I can't remember the last time I saw Smacko sober (or even something other than blackout drunk). And anyway, it's a rather scary improvement when you think about it...

I don't know if you're like this, but whenever you get really, really happy, in the back of your mind, don't you kind of worry that you'll never feel that good again? Like, this is the last high point, and it's all kind of middling from there? On Friday night, I was drunk and joyful (The wine I opened was far, far better than I expected), but even as I sang, there were these recurring thoughts like, "You know, this would be the best time to off yourself, when you're all jovial and numb and the like..." And it kind of kept annoying repeating in my head as we went through the rest of endeavors.

I was actually in far better spirits than Shelly, which is quite an oddity, and it sort of seemed like our night was going to be a flop, but we all eventually got our shit together and headed to some Urbana house party. I was excited because Double K (of the "Venom is Driving" boombox) had RSVP'd. I sort of assumed he'd just make an appearance, but no, no - he was there the whole time, dancing up a storm, far before anyone else was drunk enough to stand bravely out in front of the DJ.

I don't even want to talk about girls. I'm not brave enough, they're not interested, I wish I could pretend I'm not interested... I'm sitting at Spritz's desk with my head down, trying to pick and choose songs, Allison keeps coming over to sit on my lap, it is just so, so... morose. It was all I could do not to start moaning, flailing my arms dramatically. I feign death until she loses interest for a little while, then start playing songs again.

The party was pretty good, I guess. What I remember. It filled up fast and eventually attracted the cops, so we gathered some forces (including Double K!!!) and marched back to our place. Our drink supply was pretty low, and a tipsy Shelly was in charge of bartending, so we all ended up with strong as hell milk-based drinks. Like a ice cream cone and a punch to the neck, I'd tell anyone who'd listen. Actually, we were all at about that good social drunk place (except Smacko - he was screaming gibberish from the couch) where we would all smile and laugh and talk with ease. Every one of Spritz's Nerf darts were lost, and I'm told a conversation along these lines was had:

Shelly: What would you like to listen to, Double K?
Double K: Do you have have any hip hop?
Shelly: Uh... We will have Will Smith!
DOuble K: ...

So, suddenly my boy Will is blasting through the house. Double K vanished. One must believe there was a third hidden Z factor buried underneath all this data. The crowd thins out, whatever, and I decide to run to the store to get some more chips (Maybe Shelly is right... Maybe I do love chips. Maybe I have been deluding myself this whole time). I manage to walk away from the Unitarian Church with a yellow hard hart. I realize there is no way I can wear this hat inside of Schnucks and look like a sober person, I start running back, apparently enveloping a common garden rake along the way. I appear at home, and there is talk of IHOP, of all places. Perhaps I should not be driving, but I am the soberest, and you now know my mindstate, so I offer (as well as the hard hat to anyone who feels they may need it). Somehow I am able to convince Jevon that me risking all of our lives is worth a free entree in my direction. He is inclined to agree, and I have a big salad. Shelly does as well, but she wolfs the whole thing down. It is vaguely disgusting. Thankfully, I was not awake much longer.

I'm not the type of person to drunk dial, but you know who I always think about calling, pretty much every time I'm drunk? No, not old girlfriends, not Hillary, not even good old Jenni from the gas station - I usually feel like dialing up my parents. Of course, it's like past 1 or something, and they're long asleep, but I still always think about it. "They wouldn't mind too much." I don't know why this is exactly. I guess they're the ones I miss the most. I would not mind being drunk around them sometime again.

I brought a can of generic beef ravioli over to Dank's house the next day. A careless Negro nearly mowed me down trying to run a red light, and the can of ravioli fell out of my pocket and onto the street. "Oh no!" I said. "My ravioli!" Perhaps it heard my cries, for it came rolling back to the curb near which I was standing. I don't know why, but I think that is a limitlessly interesting anecdote. It didn't matter anyway, as Dank has a magic toaster used for the self-contained preparation of bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches. They were nasty, but they were also free.

Obviously, you know why I was there. BIG MOMMA'S HOUSE MARATHON! Amazingly, somebody out there is as stupid as us and had the original checked out, so we actually had to hunt around to find the atrocity. There is something... highly unnerving about that. But found it we did, and we watched it with mere moments to spare. On the plus side, this left us with a relatively miniscule Big Momma-less window between the first at Dank's and the second at the theatre. Ten minutes tops, with us frantically shoving people aside. "WE NEED TO SEE PROSTHETIC MARTIN LAWRENCE AND NOW!" The second one was so much worse than the first. And the first was fucking terrible. But you would not know it from the crowd we had. I thought we would be sort of safe, Saturday afternoon matinee and all. I'd actually forced Dank to skip opening night because I was afraid of the people that would be there, but guess what? They were there on Saturday, too. It was great, like an crowd full of stereoypical black movie audience people, hootin' and hollerin' and cackling at every damn stupid thing ("Big Momma's ass, you say? For the third time in 40 minutes, you say? ..... Nope! Still funny! AHAHHAHAHAHAHA") Clearly, they were not lost in the intricacies of the plot. See, there is this computer "worm," and somehow it will steal the government unless Big Momma wins the cheerleading competition and does some chores, etc., etc. Admittedly, there was one very redeemable element: This cute little three year old boy who took flying leaps off high ledges to bellyflop on his face. That's never not funny. Nor is eating sand with great vigor. With vigor!

I eventually went home, not because I seriously envisioned plans (It was all nasty and rainy out), but because there was to be a board game party at Dank's - starring Kay's coworkers. Ooh, there is a strange little dynamic between those two! I guess that's to be expected, but it still made me want to turn my head away.

I was perfectly happy sitting at home doing nothing, but it was quickly put on the floor that we should drink. And of course if it is put on the floor that we should drink, it will quickly be amended to add that we should go out as well. All of these things happened. I had no money to spend on fancy grape schnapps or anything, so I stood and watched as Shelly and Spritz made the poor choice of bloody mary mix. Obviously, they both hated this concoction the second they tasted it (Should have listened to my suggestion about Beefmato, no?), and all cups were immediately shoved in my direction. I had better luck than they, but even I have limits to the amount of boozed-up spicy cold tomato soup (gazpacho??) I can consume. I followed with some margarita (assuming lemonade plus grenadine plus tap water plus tequila plus salt packet equals margarita) and the fact that I actually enjoyed the tequila a fair bit is the first sign that things have truly, truly gone wrong.

I believe Shelly was the only one the least bit buzzed, but we all dutifully pulled on our going-out clothes and boarded the bus. Just let me stay home and count the songs I know in "Surviving Nugent!" Please! I beg of you! As we rode onward towards the innermost circles of hell, I took comfort in the fact that at least the crowds would be small. Wrong again, statistician! Long lines spewed out everything, and the only place they did not (Legends) would not let Shelly in because she is a re-re and has lost all identification except for an expired state ID from like a decade ago. "But it really is me!" she argues with the close-talking doorman. "You can definitely trust this old ass piece of shit with a troll on it that vaguely resembles me!" Well, he did not, which I guess is fortunate, because there was something of a megabust that night - between five and ten people were arrested at each campus bar. Shelly could well have been in those numbers.

A little sidenote on Shelly's constant lost articles of importance. Oh, let me stand corrected. She optimistically ("stupidly") says that she has not lost them; she merely does not know where they are. Anyway. I was going to bed last night, turning off the lights and TV and shit, and Shelly has this IM window open on her computer. It's from her mom. I'll paraphrase:

Shelly's Mom: "Shelly, please call us when you get this message."
Shelly: "I can't, I lost my phone :("

This struck me as really funny for some reason: 1) the pathetic tone I imagined Shelly taking were she to say this aloud and 2) the pained sigh and shudder as Shelly's parents are once again let down by her pure, concentrated retardation. I imagine the little flash of rage. "God damn it, Shelly!" and then the shame that they used to the lord's name in vain to curse their daughter. I thought of all of this and laughed.

Anyway, it was clear that this evening was going nowhere - none of us were in the mood, or drunk enough (same thing) and I was being a little excessive in yelling about another bullshit night in Sucktown (I paraphrase) to anyone who'd listen, so we stopped for bubble tea and headed home. Well, Spritz and I did. Shelly and Jevon went to Firehaus to hang out for a little while. DUN DUN DUN.

It's 1:30. Spritz has ostensibly gone to Dustin's, I have watched some shitty ass VH1 and am actually thinking about turning in kind of early, when who should come clomping into the house but a very drunken Shelly. Of course, the extent of her inebriety will only become clear in time. She comes upstairs with two glasses of water and pours them neatly on the floor. "Uh, I actually don't need water, Shelly. I'm quite sober." Shelly collapses on my bed with this news. As her condition becomes clear, I am finishing my conversation with Dank to take care of her. This was apparently too long of a lapse in attention, and Shelly crawls out to the hallway, collapses on Spritz's sock clips, and starts to cry. Oh, good. It's one of those nights. I'm so glad that I alone am here to take care of her.

This is exactly what I didn't want to deal with, so I'm hardly the most caring caretaker. "You retard! Why are you crying!" She has no good answer and only continues to writhe on the floor, moaning, "Help me, Nate! I need you to help me! Heeeellllppp (gargle)" This will become a common theme for the night. I get her one of the half-full glasses of water and some toilet paper to wipe up the snot, which will periodically form stalactices off the tip of her nose. Girl says she can hardly see me, which gives me some idea of her level of intoxication. It also makes drinking water a grotesque misadventure, as she blindly hunts around for the straw with her mouth, finally grabbing it an awkward handjob position and taking a small sip before she resumes her nonsensical flailing. Her boob pops out, and I ask her to tuck it back. Another recurring theme.

This rotation carries on for some time, with Shelly intermittently telling me that I should "just go to bed." I would, I say, but the sound of you dying out here carries far too well through the flimsy walls. The nice thing about drunks is that they are on an eternal loop. Makes for easy storytelling. Shelly, for the umpteenth time, questions Jevon's motives. "Why would he buy me so many drinks? I don't think I even drank that much. Why would he get them all for me? He doesn't want to do me. Why would he do that? Help me, Nate!" Writhe. I have Shelly crawl to my bed, where her idiotic flailings cause her to smash her face into my laptop. At least she dropped the f-bomb when she did it. And her boob pops out again. I run to get her a t-shirt because the apple of knowledge has tainted me with shame.

Shelly decides she "probably" needs to puke. I act like this is a big shock to me and get her a garbage can, which she hunches around for decades. I don't know if you've heard, but Shelly vomitting is an operatic ordeal. I think it's been worked up as a bad thing in her mind for so long that now she panics when she even thinks the time is coming. I don't know - I don't vomit enough to really understand the process. Anyway, she is just gagging and gagging into this trash can, and if I really started to think about it, I could probably have puked ten times over just from listening to it. So I run to check my IMs. There is one from Kyle: "Tell me about your night." Yeah, now's not great.

God, probably 45 minutes pass, and Shelly is still embracing the tiny bathroom trashcan. This is going nowhere. She needs to puke before any of us can go to sleep, so I start suggesting inspiration.

"You want to smell a nice shot of shitty vodka? I can run get one!"
"Maybe I'll download the sounds of other people puking."
"Want to look at some harlequin babies?"
"How about I just punch you in the stomach?"

I finally deduce that motion is Shelly's worst enemy here, as any shift in position gets her reeling again. So, I start her running around, up and down the stairs, and to the bathroom finally (save me some cleanup) and WHOOOSH. A God damn two liter flies out of this girl as I stand watching with my arms folded. Happy Saturday! Perhaps I'm supposed to be comforting at this stage in the proceedings, rubbing her back or something. But I hate that shit. I can only do it drunk, and right now I am the soberest man alive.

Although still very drunk, her improvement is remarkable. I can finally lead her around (on foot even!) to bed. But oh wait. "My sheets are in the laundryyyyyyy," she moans. "We have to get my sheeeeeeeets." She is like a spectre. So we get her sheets and fucking make her bed. Awfully picky for a drunk, no? I should toss your ass on the back porch, let you pull a Spritz. So, she's all bedded, toilet paper, bucket, and water at the ready, and I feel like I'm finally free. "Will you stay with me a whiiiiiiile?" Well, piss. Drunk enough to worry about sheets, but not quite enough to consider dental hygiene, she breathes, open-mouted, in my direction. "Hm," I say. "Guess you had some raspberry drinks tonight?" I want to make a lame Harry Potter Priori Incantatem joke, but I don't believe she would get it.

I am eventually allowed to escape. At 4. So much for an early night. On the plus side, in repayment, she offers to buy me a meal from anywhere I'd like. Obviously, the only choice for a condition such as this is T.G.I. Friday's. Ha ha ha.

The week was... whatever. Most of the time I'm busy enough to stay sane and focused. I guess that's a benefit, but I still don't like the week very much. Things need done and all.

I know you don't care about my little advertising life, but I suppose you'll be hearing more and more about it, so just fucking deal. So, as I've no doubt mentioned a thousand times now, we're in this contest hawking these stupid fucking steel identity theft-blocking mailboxes. So, Brenna and I were working on 10 ads for this damn thing (having produced that a few times over already), researching statistics, crunching numbers, trying to make what little information we have sound scary and important. Now, the assholes in AAF gave us one really good statistic to work with, that 1 in 5 Americans have their identity stolen. That's actually a very big, scary number, and if you play it right, you could probably do something with it. So we're trying to make it pertinent and compelling, and I come to realize that this number is complete bullshit. What they mean to say is that 1 in 5 Americans have HAD their identity stolen. Ever. At some point in the last 15 years (and that's not even entirely right because no one in advertising knows how to do statistics). Maybe that's still a tiny bit scary, but it doesn't really tell you anything. It's certainly not a predictor of one's chances of identity theft in the future. If you look at this on a yearly basis, it's more like 1 in 25 people have their identity stolen. 4%. And falling. Not exactly the earth-shattering statistic we were looking for, you know? So, suddenly, everything we've done so far seems sort of wrong. The whole strategy we've been given is that consumers have been severely underestimating their chances of identity theft. According to the numbers we have, they're already overestimating by as much as ten times (Of course, our facts have been wrong before). So, this puts me and Brenna in crisis... until I decide we should probably rattle some cages. Stop making these false ads, tell Peter our findings (admittedly, they were in front of us the entire time, but no one else has noticed), watch as he strangles Steve Hall and the AAF squad, and start over fresh with a clever and pertinent strategy.

Well, obviously this did not work. I'm still not sure anyone is getting it like I do. Or maybe I'm the one missing something, I can't tell. But we tell Peter, and he's like, "You're right. So now what?" Apparently we don't change strategy this late in the game, no matter how useless it becomes. Okey doke. Brenna and I spent a madcap five hours in the lab fighting through our distractions to make that 4% seem scary and relevant. Hint: It still isn't. Then we come to class thinking we can at least shit on our classmates. Nope. They don't get it either. Lauren, the beautiful, anal one, keeps asking anyone around, "What happened to the one in five? It's not one in twenty five. It's one in five. They must have done their math wrong." Arg, the ignorance, the ignorance! So we try and explain our findings, and then Ashely, the tiny, Disney one, is strangely bitchy. "The 1 in 5 is a lie. It doesn't mean anything," I say. "But I thought we were telling people it does," she replies. Lies and more lies. Is everyone just scum or an idiot in this field? I mean, I'm OK with putting a new angle on things. I can advertise a product I hate because I know someone out there might not hate it. No qualms. Presenting things in a particular light is fine if you have the real facts in there somewhere. Persuasion is what we do, but intentionally lying and deceiving people just seems wrong, wrong, wrong. Lord, maybe I'm in the wrong field.

On the plus side, we had a blind vote in class to see whether we wanted to stay with our partners or move on. It would seem only Brenna and I jointly voted individually that we wanted to keep working together, which I guess is sort of flattering. Meaning, the rest of you all suck. But we got to stay together whereas everyone else got shifted around. Was this the day I slept through sign language? Yes, probably. I feel like we might have gone out then, but if so, I remember absolutely nothing of it. We go out entirely too much to actually have memorable evenings anymore. Just hungover aftermaths. Which would make sense, considering Thursday was the day I went late into work... and had to make t-shirts on this huge insane heat press. Three hundred fifty degrees the thing was, with about an inch of space to work in, moving the shirt around to make sure it was flat and stuff. I only got two serious burns, and I am counting myself lucky. I did find it sort of amusing that I was in Beckman, this silent crypt of a place, louding cursing to myself as I tried to line up some curling weakass iron-ons.

For the life of me, I cannot remember last Wednesday. Tuesday, I remember. I was so sober. Nobody else was. We went out to Urbana bars, a dire prospect. I left to get Spritz cigarettes, just happy to have a chance to leave. Smacko got too drunk, punched me in the stomach, tackled a picket fence, grabbed a single picket as a reward, and ran around threatening people with it. Jevon took this picket and hid it, leading Smacko to retaliate by stealing his empty gin bottles. Good one, Smacko. Jevon ate handfuls of PB&J with Grape Nuts. No bread. Fuck bread. Also parsley eggs. Damn it, I remember so much of Tuesday and so little of Wednesday! I slept a long time that afternoon...

OK, OK - got it. Shelly and I compared notes. We went to the new Wal-mart, ate nasty something or other, and then she went to do homework. So unless I started shooting black tar heroin, chances are that I forgot the evening merely because it was so, so boring. Glad to have that out of the way. Shelly and I went to work on Thursday, had a Nerf gun battle at Dank's (after The Aristocrats, not to be confused with The Aristocats), and ate too many tacos.

WHAT A WEEK =|