03/10/2006 - 10:56 a.m. | i take my twist with a shout

We are now entering, what, day three since the breakup, and things have been pretty normal. Would we go so far as to say good? We might even say good.

Tuesday night I was a bit shaky, but Gautam kindly provided me with chicken tenders and infinity booze to soothe the jitters. Murphy's and Brothers were both fucking terrible, even for them (especially those Jim Beam cunts, getting me to down two sugar cane clusterfuck Beam and pineapples and then not giving me a prize), but at least I was hungover on a Wednesday. You are doing something right, Nathan! Something correct!

Wednesday we went out for some mediocre ass Italian for Dank's birthday. I maintain we should have gone to Hooters, if only for how awkward it would have made all of us, but I'll just choke down my 11 dollar cheese ravioli and just plain love life. I was the only one who finished his meal.

That night, we watched Super Mario Bros.. The theatrical presentation. I have no idea who that film was intended for. Too retarded for anyone above the age of 4, too dark for anyone under 18, and too surreal for pretty much anyone to understand. Dank said that his dad took him to say it in theatres as a child, thus putting Mr. Kador ahead of the Mrs. in terms of parental sacrifice. Vaginal tearing, my foot. He had to watch Bob Hoskins surf down an ice tube in a mattress.

In fact, I am going to do everything in my power now to make friends with John Leguizamo, just so I can shadow him at most major events, whispering, "You played Luigi Mario.*" "For eighteen hundred dollars. You did it." All cold whispering his earnest lines as I go for another drink. "'Remember, trust the fungus.'" "'Well, you know, we got a van.' You fuck-up!"

*That was actually the character's name, because they are the Mario Brothers, you see. So Mario's name was Mario Mario. That was actually one of the better parts.

After that we watched a documentary about these British teens with Tourette's syndrome, all gathering at this camp in America with all these other teens with the disease. It was better in every way a thing could be better, cute little British girls all yelling "nigger" and "Twin tower" at people in the airport and shit. Well, there was some awful pig creature, but she couldn't take everyone else's tics - calling her fat and saying she gives head (Were they tics? "JEN GIVES HEAD" is a mother of a catchphrase) - and left shortly thereupon. Seriously, though, Tourette's just might be the disease to level the playing field. I mean, obviously I could never get a normal attractive person, but society lowers them down to my level because they scream "cunt" all the time. If anything, that would just put them higher in my regard.

It is a normal end of the week now. Drinking and blasting music at the lab Thursday night, hungover and reading Harry Potter PG-13 fan fiction at the lab Friday morning.

Last night as Shelly and I walked home from the lab, we heard this thumpin' party not even a block south of us. It took some coercion on Shelly's part, but I finally agreed to go, bottle of apple Pucker in hand. Turns out it was a cast party for some musical, and we were definitely not invited. Everyone was far too intimate with one another, and suddenly Shelly was the one who did not want to stay. They were theatre people, though, and were thus marginally attractive and desperate for attention, so I was willing to wait it out for a little while. This was in good judgment, for soon photo op time came, and the girls bunched together, all showing off their pink panties (This was a theme?) and tonguing each other left and right. Oh, you self-esteem deprived psychos. How I love thee. The girl Shelly had picked out for me (Clone Hillary, we will call her, although obviously by now I know her real identity and have her AIM name tacked onto my stalking buddy list) was one of the real winners, stumbling around with her pants around her ankles. Spritz ran to get Omar, but it was right around the time that people started to get suspicious of our presence. Apparently Allison's friend Ruth lives there, and though she told us that the party was "inclusive," we're pretty sure she's just an idiot and meant the opposite, for we were suddenly being pushed out by some blonde fatass in a teal shirt. Shelly said he'd asked her if we were in I-Triple-E, but that is a society for Electrical Engineers. I do believe they were trying to fool us.

We contemplated re-invading the party, or finding a new one, but mostly ended up watching Adult Swim so I could finally see my name and car on television. They made fun of me for being a drunk. Another pinnacle for the Walsh family! Grandpa Squirrel is beginning to smell, as I learned in my numerous trips down to the basement to try and get the bathroom fuse to stay unblown. It refuses to not be blown. It is a policy a man could acquiesce.

I am convinced that this is going to be a good weekend, but lord I have no idea how. Certainly I won't relish my first weekend back as a single man. I would be setting myself up for an even bigger depression than usual. The failure, the unending failure. Or worse, the limitless success. With nuggets! However, although I do miss her sometimes and feel bad that she is out there hurting, it has been a huge weight off my shoulders, not holding that secret inside any longer, and it's pretty awesome not worrying about having to call her (or the guilt that I am not calling her). The last time around I was as much of a mess as she was. This time, there is sadness, but it is a reasonable sadness. It makes me think I've done the right thing.