04/01/2006 - 7:15 p.m. | *stars fall on*

All right, hour �til class, time to kill � I am going to get caught up on the last week or so, even if I can�t see exactly. See, I have been staying up late and falling asleep with my contacts in, which completely fucks me over and leaves me blurry-eyed throughout the daytime hours. But that really isn�t going to stop us from banging out some kickin� awesome overly-descriptive recollections of boring past events.

Have I fallen asleep before 6 any night this week? No, I don�t believe so. Sunday night Shelly and I stayed up watching hellish marathons, first of the reality show involving the family of midgets Little People tiny genetic monstrosities and then �Wonder Showzen,� a vulgar, offensive parody of �Sesame Street� and its ilk. The latter was much better than the former, as pretty much everyone in the tiny family was either ugly or a cunt, and pretty much it�s always better to see little kids and puppets dance around energetically to a song about slaves (�Slaves! / Built the pyramids / Slaves! / Built the Parthenon�).

I am so glad that school has started again. It gives me things to do, even if some of those things do include riding the bus. Fucking cesspool of humanity, public transportation is. Shelly and I had already agreed in advance to skip sign language and just rent the movie we were watching, so I had the one class for the day. Turns out it was a good one. We had a couple speakers from the VCU Adcenter, apparently the #1 portfolio school in the country (Seems like I should know these things, doesn�t it?). Mostly it just stirred up the confusion once more about what I should be doing. I mean, not that I could afford the place (and I certainly wouldn�t get one of the coveted 60 spots in a class), but apparently it opens all sorts of doors for you. And I could use some door openings. I wish I had some fucking direction.

Anyway, it was vaguely interesting and all, but the fun part didn�t really start until after class when Peter invited us along out for a beer with the speakers. This quickly became many, many beers, only one of which I actually paid for myself. Maybe I�m just being arrogant, but I think Peter bought a great deal of these beers on my behalf specifically, as he thinks I am amusing as hell, and this is only compounded when we are both drunk. So, it was something of a riot. There were only like 3 other students there, so we were able to talk a fair amount of trash, always a plus, and there was plenty of gossiping and not-entirely-appropriate storytelling and reminiscing. We asked Peter how our class compared to the ones he had in the past, and he said his main complaint was that we�re just not as closely-knit as groups from years gone by. His reasoning? Not enough collective drinking. He says, and I tend to agree, that getting trashed with a group of people is the fastest track to real friendship and cooperation. I myself have always wanted to have barcrawls and karaoke nights and whatnot with these people, but I never had the balls to step up and actually admit these things. Well, no more! Fueled by 4 or 5 pints of Labatt Blue, I made many solemn vows to get on everyone�s case and start sending insistent e-mails that we all get fucked up together.

Maybe I have something of a vested interest in this. It seems every year Peter makes a prediction as to who in his creative class is going to hook up, and he is apparently right a good percentage of the time. Now that could be because he does a fair amount of the drunken matchmaking himself, but still, pretty intriguing. He actually has predictions for our class, but he won�t tell, and we certainly won�t find out for ourselves until we get ourselves out there in confined spaces with alcohol. The best part was that some of the girls were like, �Oh, but most people are in these really long-term relationships!� to which he only cackles and says that it hasn�t mattered before, and it probably won�t matter this time either. So of course we start thinking about who actually isn�t in a couple these days, and it�s like, uh, Brenna and, uh, me, so people start making jokes, which is totally embarrassing because I do sort of like her a little bit, but I sure as hell wasn�t going to mention anything in this stage of the game. Anyway, all the more reason to go down this road. Even if it isn�t me, there could be some really hilarious matches made under the right conditions. And I would love to be there to get Polaroids.

We eventually wind down around 5 (I ran into mstan, which was pretty awesome� for me, anyway; he probably wanted to kill himself as I went on and on about how we should go out for karaoke sometime or something), and it is rainy, and I am so, so drunk. I stumble home, running top speed, and just eat copious amounts of potatoes, first these stale old reheated nasty cheese fries and then a coerced trip to Wendy�s with Shelly and Omar for a baked potato and more fries. I pass out for a few hours while the two of them go to workout, and I awake hungover and groggy. Well, time to start drinking again!

Seems Shelly has randomly latched onto a scheme to see this band, Finga Lickin�, at The Office that night. I have no idea where the hell this came from, but she is adamant, trying to round up a reasonable-sized group to march through the rain and see this hell. She gets Allison and Jevon and Booger and then she starts in on me, trying to get me to IM Hillary and see if she wants to join us. It was actually a pretty good scheme, I have to admit. Act like I�m not really expecting anyone to go along, so I�m just trying to round up everybody, yet giving me an open window to talk to her later on in the week when it is more likely she might want to do something. At best, she comes; at worst, the window. Very clever. However, I am still not ballsy enough to just send a message to someone out of nowhere. It seems so creepy to me, and Shelly and I had like a 20 minute argument on it, which I eventually won somehow. Or at least got out of, thank God. I�ll do this in my own way, which is to say copious amounts of luck, alcohol, and eBay pheromones.

Smacko and Allison arrive, and everyone takes turns doing apple juice quaffers. I stick with water, try and get myself sober enough to tolerate beer again. We make our slow pilgrimage to the bar, and it turns out Ball Lickin� (my little pet name for them) is actually a blues band. I fucking hate blues bands. Although I guess the little bit of Johnny Cash they threw in was worthwhile.

So we play our usual games, and it�s all pretty normal. Booger burps sonic booms, Shelly gets all smiley, Smacko gets less and less coherent. The wildcard of the evening is Allison Helm, though. Apparently much, much drunker than I thought, she disappears outside, ostensibly to use the rest room, and comes back many, many minutes later. It is clear that she has been crying, so Shelly and I try to assess the situation. Pretty much this leads to full-on bawling and group hugs and poor Shelly left comforting the poor, irrational thing, even though none of us really understand the problem. Something to do with Mike the Douchebag is about all I got out of it. She is roughly 4-year old drunk, and we all watch nervously as she ham-fistedly tries to draw her next card from the circle of death. We do not stay a whole lot longer.

It is a slow stumble home, as Allison trods home under the support of poor Gautam. Shelly tosses a hubcap like a Frisbee again and again, much to Allison�s amusement. We make it back, and since I am almost entirely sober, plans are made for a Taco Bell trip. Omar leaps out of the bushes or something to join us. I�m thinking it�s a pretty good opportunity to just drop Allison off at her place, but she insists on sticking with Shelly and joins us at the old T-Bell, where she is most zombie-like in her consumption of the two Cheesy Gordita Crunches I order her, all slow and instinctual-like. There is warring between the tables, and the staff is amused with my ridiculous car. On the drive home, someone busts open the box of generic Jewel Cheerios I have lying around (�Jewlios�). Despite my numerous admonishments, they begin devouring them messily, throwing them around the car, tossing them out the window, putting them in my hair, just general drunken nuisances. I make many idle threats, but everyone recognizes them as such.

A day has passed, and I have gone without saying anything perceptible. I am currently at the computer lab, and it is pretty warm, and I have a water bottle full of vodka and a handful of quarters, and even though that has never helped me write in the past, tonight I expect little but success.

Tuesday morning I woke up and finally got around to asking someone what was due in creative non-fiction for the day. Turns out quite a damn lot: 3 essay critiques and a response paper to a book I had not read or purchased. I wasn�t going to let that stop me, though, and ran to Amazon to gather reader reviews and compile them into some sort of overall compelling statement that would blow the professor away. OK, obviously that is a lie. He never likes my work�

(Then again, this is technically not my work, so I�m sort of expecting my first good grade in the class!)

I was feeling feisty and actually spoke up in class, both to my fellow students, socially, and in regards to the essay critiques I normally ignore. No one seemed to mind (why would they?), but I still hate it. It�s just my general problem with all conversation. Why would anyone care about anything I have to say? I have a feeling I�ve never said anything important or meaningful in my life.

Good news, though. Turns out for our last workshop, the author being reamed will actually have a chance to defend him or herself from the onslaught of terror. I�m actually sort of looking forward to it, even if it does sort of ruin my whole plan: Sunday night, even though I was up �til 5 watching �Wonder Showzen,� I was restless and spent a good two hours coming up with battle plans for that final essay. I wanted to do something bitchy and clever, you know, a nice send off, but I didn�t want it to just be flat out, �I hate you and your class, awful gay man, petty pretentious students!� Instead, I eventually decided to pretty much rip off Adaptation and write an essay about the writing of the essay, going through the struggle to pick a topic, my bitching to anyone who�ll listen about the class, the last minute worrying about what everyone will think, etc. Basically defending myself as I couldn�t before and attacking all the things I have disliked. It seemed like the perfect plan, and I had over half of it mentally written, but now I�m not so sure. It would have been great just letting it slide and not saying a word, but now, defending it� It wouldn�t be a very easy essay to defend.

Exhausted from the night before, I passed out and skipped Sex & Madness. Oopsie. When I awoke, it wasn�t long before it was time for us to head out again, this time to Nargile for a hookah. I don�t know what it was � maybe the night of twice-boozing before, maybe the entire pot of stuffing I�d eaten mere hours earlier � but I was not up for drinking. I drove us all instead and had a Coke and my share of the hookah while Shelly and I sat metaphorically apart from Spritz, Omar, and Gautam as they discussed things we did not care about or understand. Basketball and jazz and �spinning.� I kept a running tally of how many times Omar used the word �tight.�

Shelly recently asked if I disliked Omar, and I can honestly say that I do not. The thing is, there are about 4 or 5 people in the whole world I can stand to spend as much time with as he is around, and guess what? He did not make the cut. That�s nothing against him � if anything, it means I am the one with the problem, but there you go. Truth.

I was pretty antsy, though, all stabbing my ice at cut-time, and I guess a drink could have relaxed me. The hookah certainly didn�t. Actually, I have been long-suffering as a result of that stupid thing. I know the smoke is notoriously mild and all, but apparently I am just ultra-susceptible. The last two days I have been coughing like an old man or Spritz, and I have hacked up plenty of nasties, with no sign of abatement. Stupid runty lungs.

The bar was dead but for us (and this nasty marshmallow woman who eventually ran out somewhere all-you-can-eat, I�m sure), so we went home pretty early. That did not stop us from staying up �til after 5, though, and even then up in my room I spent another hour composing a manifesto to my advertising class about how we need to get drunk together. I don�t know if it was well-written or if it was just because someone finally started the ball rolling, but the damn thing has had an amazing response. Personally, I like to think it�s the former, but I can�t really remember a damn word of what I wrote, so it remains in the dark. Anyway, though, it�s started a chain of e-mails and plans and maybe barcrawls and nights out and everything I wanted the whole damn time, plus plenty of congrats to me, which is all I really want any damn time.

Wednesday was pretty lame, I guess. We found out the product we�ll be working on with the real ad people in a couple of weeks. Tower Records. For inspiration, I�ve started rereading High Fidelity. Brenna and I are partners once again, but she brought it up first this time. That�s reassuring; I don�t feel like nearly as much of a one-sided clod. Shelly was in charge of creating some sort of guest speaker from the ether, so we skipped sign language to try and make that happen. It�s actually rather amusing watching Shelly try to function in a professional manner � she is just as scatterbrained as always, so we run back and forth between the same three or four places like a dozen or so times. All in all, though, it turned out all right. I was just there for the free pizza, but the speaker was not nearly as soul-crushing as I had envisioned.

That night, Shelly and I watched the movie for sign language, a documentary focusing on the debate about whether deaf people should get cochlear implants to attempt to fix their deafness. Now, at first look, it seems pretty obvious that they should. Deafness is a handicap, and this is a fairly effective cure if you can implement it early enough. However, lots and lots of people see people with the implant as traitors to the deaf culture they have worked so hard to form. Personally, I guess I�m more on the implant side, but that just could have been because the deaf people in this were awful and ugly. One woman wore shorts, and her legs looked like uncooked chicken. How can I respect the opinion of someone who thinks it is acceptable to be flashing those gams all over the place? It�s madness, is what it is. You know me, though � the only opinion I hate is one stubbornly defended, and these people were pricks. Their little girl was deaf and wanted to get the implant, but they brainwashed her out of it and wouldn�t listen to the arguments of anyone else, running off to some all-deaf community to act like there is no problem at all. Pisses me off.

Incidentally, there was no real need to read the preceding paragraph, as it contained nothing the least bit interesting. Sorry about that.