03/17/2006 - 6:03 p.m. | i would have given you mine.

I�m sure you�ll be happy to hear that I�m much less sick today. No aches, no dizzies, and my temperature is actually more than a degree lower than it should be (What is this? Is it hypothermia?) Those flu spoons made me right manic, though. Besides that insane lecture I wrote about that old woman in Hitch, I also had half a mind to write about long-defunct 90�s band Better Than Ezra. They are not actually defunct, however, but that is like saying that Hootie & the Blowfish are still on a meteoric rise to superstardom (and not Burger King commercials). My point is that I can basically get as drunk as I need to tonight, even if I�ve been told time and again how dead this town is going to be.

Anyway, we are going to talk about last Saturday. Spring Break is here, and with no friends or immediate plans, it is best to sit and write about previous failures. Cheering.

So, when we left off on Friday, I�d passed out and woken up with my glasses miraculously recovered. That was great and all, but since I had passed out, I had also neglected to drink any water. I�m told wine hangovers are the worst, and having now experienced one firsthand, I can�t entirely disagree with you there. Omar and his tall awkward friend came over to use our pisser and to once again remind Shelly that she would be smoking weed with them that very night. Clearly, they were far, far more excited than she was.

Shelly and I sat in a stupor for a long, long time, all watching �Scrubs� and trying to recover. I don�t know what was up, but I gradually realized that, through the pain, I had the strangest urge to go for another run. I had no idea if this was smart or not � it certainly didn�t seem so, forcing myself to sweat at a time when I was already most severely dehydrated � but if we try not to listen to our emotions, we at least go ahead and listen to our little body signals. And were they right! Apparently running is like the perfect hangover cure, all the pain in your body eventually dwarfing that in your head and tummy, so that by the time it subsides, you are feelin� fine. And smelling horrendous.

I showered right quick, though, because Shelly�s family was in town, and I was not about to pass up on the chance for a free lunch and the opportunity to steal covert glances at Jessy Wetzler�s boobies. They would not be happy if they read this.

Shelly�s family, not Jessy�s boobies. I�d be surprised if they could read at all.

We went to Friday�s, which I think is very good for entirely the wrong reasons. As I was trying to explain, I call it �manifesting my depression.� See, I�m generally not that happy of a person, which is dumb, because I have no reason not to be. However, by eating at a shitheap like T.G.I. Friday�s, I take my feelings of sadness and externalize them. Everyone has a reason to be sad at Friday�s, all Jack Daniels grills and seasoned fries and all. They actually corrected Shelly�s parents because they did not use the proper adjective in their order. �You mean the Sizzlin� Chicken and Shrimp?� Fuck. You. But man, I had this glass of orange juice, and it was the stone cold best thing I ever tasted, all pulpy and cold. There was talk of future plans, and I just kept laughing.

That night, we were finally going to get down to business with Shelly smoking the reefer. It did not go well. I don�t know if this added to her trepidation, but not nearly as many of us as she thought would actually be joining. Spritz is still wary of the stuff after the one bad experience nearly two years ago; I planned on being on pills, and I�ve learned from experience that the happiness of the pills and the happiness of the weed tend to clash and leave me less happy overall. So mostly it was just Shelly and Omar and Smacko passing the device around, all sharing the boxload of food Shelly�s mom had given her when they left.

Now, from most people I�d heard that weed didn�t really affect you the first couple times you smoked it. It was certainly true in my case, but then, we�d been smoking Jason Kahn�s turdweed, and that was more than likely just some oregano with a few sunflower seeds tossed in. But then, chemicals in general seem to have more of an effect on Shelly than most people. And usually not in a good way. Vicodin made her paranoid, Redbull and its subsidiaries make her puke, birth control enhances her ADD to near epic levels, so on and so forth. So I guess I shouldn�t have been quite so surprised when near minutes after her first couple of hits, she is sobbing in Spritz�s arms, unable to speak for all the paranoia about what we are thinking about her. I shake her hand. �Welcome to social anxiety. We�re glad to have you.�

Meanwhile, I was working myself up to a good old time, one of the best trips I�ve had in pretty much ever, all watching Smacko murder us all in the old school original �Oregon Trail.� I died of syphilis or something, I think. Shelly was just lying on the bed, probably flying through an echo-y tunnel in her mind or something. I would look back her and she was always staring, staring. It made me nervous, so I would wave.

Eventually I decided this is not how our evening should go exactly, so I grabbed Shelly and we ran back to our place to try and develop a game plan. She was still in that tunnel, though, and I was far, far entirely too happy, so we needed some downtime. And I mean waaaay too happy. I did what can pretty much only be described as the Gayest Dance Move in the World, this flying, arms splayed leap of exultant joy that I pretty much could never imitate because of the sincerity of it. I also tried talking some philosophy with Shelly, how I wished I could be this happy all of the time, but how maybe I would not be as good without the sadness and cynicism, how sometimes good things come of that, but neither of us could really follow the other, or ourselves, so we gave up.

We went upstairs to my room to play some Wilco and some Solitaire, which it turns out I am not really unlucky at, just really, really bad, but I was still having something of a riot and just kind of kept chuckling for no reason. Earlier in the day I had tracked down Brian from the evening before (albeit in a way that made me feel sort of guilty� assuming that all gay people obviously know one another, I looked at a list of Jasmine�s friend Josh�s facebook friends and what do you know, he was there) and now he was IMing me, being all flirtatious and stuff. He so wants a piece, which I also thought was very, very funny, even as I tried to describe why I do not like dongs (�They are the ugliest things ever.�) I never once stopped calling them dongs. Meanwhile, Michelle tried to convince me to just, you know, go ahead and IM Hillary if I'm so damn interested. People do it all the time, she said. Ah, but I am not like a lot of people. I am like a vampire; I have to be invited in. Just talking to her out of nowhere makes me seem rife with intention and ulterior motive, and while yes, that is the case, I do not enjoy seeming that way. Then it's like everything I say or ask is not because I want to learn about her, but because I am a sleaze who wants into her pants. I am not Jared Aubry, is basically what I'm saying. We argued good-naturedly for a while as I put on different mellowish musics and continued to lose at Solitaire. Shelly said this was her favorite part of the evening, and I would have to agree.

Eventually, though, a good deal of the weed got out of Shelly�s system, and we were finally ready to try and hit the town. Unfortunately, it was midnight, and sort of raining, and we did not think there would be that much town around to hit. But whatever, it�s worth a shot. So we make a list of couple of parties and set out under an umbrella. I do not particularly like walking under umbrellas, especially when they are shared umbrellas, all hunched and trying to keep in this organized little collective that does not really work well at all.

Did we even try and find the first party? Maybe, but not very much. Instead we just ventured further and further south into Urbana. Like, sub-Ohio St. and whatnot. Scary, unfamiliar shit. Ohio Street! Where the fuck are we!

We found some parties, though. Two of them, right next to each other. And outside of one is Jackson, drunk out of his gourd, screaming about how he puked on my car one time. �And then you spent hours and hours applying stickers to the puke,� I add quietly. I don�t think he notices.

We go in and immediately notice that this is a Weird Place. Too nice of a house, for one thing. Walls too white, hardwood floors, everything pretty much emptied out. And I know� it�s a party, so it should be emptied out, but I get the impression that there was nothing ever there in the first place. I immediately decide that this is some sort of drug house, and even if I don�t exactly know what that term means, it still seems fitting. Maybe they run drugs there? I don�t know. Somewhere, a computer is hooked up to some broken ass flatscreen TV on the wall, such that it is broadcasting Windows Media Player visualizations in a very, very pinkish tint. (Roughly) in time with the music we hear the sound of multiple bongos being played somewhere. Helpful party hint: Do not have bongos. First off, the sound system they were using for the real music was hopelessly tiny and constantly drowned out by the stupid hand drums and most larger conversation. I�m sorry, but it is not a party unless the stupid Black Eyed Peas are shoving their way through every molecule of air in the room, rocking your face off. It is even worse, however, when two hippie morons are trying to play along with said Peas, usually off by several beats, minutes, etc. I am no star percussionist, but even I could have beat out the terrible rhythm they were throwing out to fuck up our world. Of course, the difference is, I would never want to ruin a party with bongos, whereas they clearly always do.

See, I�ve had to alter my perceptions a little as a result of this party. Before, it was pretty much Champaign People and Urbana People with a few notable exceptions (rednecks, etc.). Now, however, I seem to have discovered a mutant offset sub-culture, the South Urbana People. The thing is, I don�t really know how to place them yet. Like, at first I kind of felt like they were older or maybe more mature� like more urban somehow, drinking martinis and looking at art... except that these people were definitely not that cool. Not in the least. Shelly and I talked when we could at this thing, trying to figure them out, but the only conclusion we really came to was that they were off. Well, also that like they were all in couples throughout. Very, very affectionate couples. It was pretty gross really. My latest theory is that this is some sort of Bermuda Triangle for the campus area � any people that don�t really fit in either place got sucked in and pretty much linger in this social group out of necessity. It is weird.

Since most everyone was in coupledom (A.J. Gurga�s completely bizarre brother aside), Shelly and I did not want to stand out and commenced trying to dance together� This was not easy in coming. Like I said, the music was really quiet and overshadowed by off-beat poundings, as well as the fact that I was coming down and Shelly had never really been up. We needed to get drunk fast. Shelly found some dude she vaguely knew, got a cup out of him, and we took turns downing beer and syrupy punch until we were a little more comfortable with the situation. In the meantime, we explored the rest of the house as well as the thing next door. Turns out it was an Asian party, and I would have had to have paid to gotten in, and I don�t care what the cute passing Korean girl said, I would not have been welcome. So back to the one.

We stayed for a long, long, long time. Over three hours and well past the party�s peak, decline, and conclusion. I cannot say why we did this. It was not a fun party by any means. More like sociological investigation. What are these people like? Apparently they are a violent race, as I nearly got into two fights just by standing there.

The first was less of a fight and more of a mindfuck instigated by these three hopeless fratboy rejects who had decided to crash the party. Multiple times, the three would pick a target (me, in one case) and on a signal, swarm the poor bastard in a triangle formation and keep slam dancing into him, screaming �Woo� and such heartily before backing off. This caused more confusion than embarrassment for me, but it is a good thing that they backed off when they did, for, once my initial puzzlement passed, I was already in the process of forming a retaliation � namely leaping on the grossest one (the redhead in his stupid �23� shirt), locking my legs tightly around him and erotically grind-dancing on him until he cried � and had it gone through, they most likely would have massacred me. It would have been worth it.

Near fight 2 happened after I came back from the pisser and found Shelly dancing with some other guy. Not wanting to ruin her (or, more likely, his) fun, I stood off against the wall and spaced off for a while. This apparently just enraged some half-Asian fellow, who stomped over all angry-eyed and asked me what my problem was. If I ever had a real reason for a fight, maybe I�d get involved, but mostly I just try and talk myself out. Polite logic usually makes angry people feel stupid and ashamed:

�Yo, what�s your problem?�
�I actually have no problem at all, man. Something seems to be upsetting you, though.� �Yeah?� he says, mustering anger.
�And what would that be?�
�YOU�
�Oh, I see. And what is it I did exactly that upset you so much?�
�You lookin� at me like you wanted to start something�
�Oh, of course. Now, I ask you, friend, do I really look the type of person that stands against walls using my eyes to start fights with people?�
�???�
�Look at these arms, man. Do I look much like a fighter to you?�
�???�

Eventually he snaps out of his reverie and awkwardly tries to insist it was all a joke, that he likes to act like he�s a hardass for laughs sometimes. Ha-ha! Clever! This is a volatile cavalcade of cannibals, that much is clear.

I try to explain my near-murder to a group of people next to me. They don�t seem to get the joke. Fucking South Urbanians.

Incidentally, tapping into a whole new throng of psychological issues, is my current fantasy of female rescue. There was this one girl at the party, and she was kind of pretty, and she definitely seemed interested, but I thought it would be weird because she was so big. Not fat by any means � she actually had a pretty nice body � it was just like someone used the enlarge button on a copy machine, making her very thick and very tall (nearly my height) in proportion to non-giant humans. It was weird enough with Andrea sometimes, so I decided I�d best let this one go. Problem was, without me to covet her, she was left open to these horrible meatheads who would stumble in to the party too drunk to notice she was not actually interested, all grinding up on her without class or rhythm, and she pretty much had to go along with it if she wanted any male attention whatsoever. I felt really sorry for her and wanted to help somehow by like cutting in or whatever, but I�d already been nearly murdered twice thus far for standing around; I felt such an open act of aggression would have left me a smear on the floor. So to you, giantess, my most sincere apologies. If only I myself were bigger.

We did not leave that place until nearly 4, I think, and passed out on the couches to an episode of �Saturday Night Live� starring The Rock. An episode of �Saturday Night Live� starring The Rock I�d already seen before. There are some twisted ironies in the world, my friends, but none more so than that.