Tom Sherman+Alcohol=Funniest man alive

And I don't do drugs because Ayn Rand tells me not to.

I have a very conflicted relationship with Q101. This morning, Mankow (or however you spell the morning dj's name) made mind-boggling comments about the war in Afghanistan after the plane crash in Queens. He advocated racial profiling, closing the borders, a bombing campaign that's "ten times Hiroshima," and most disturbingly, asked parents of school children to ask their kids if "that little middle-eastern kid in their class was celebrating after the WTC was attacked."
I asked the cafeteria employees to change the station after that. I hope that Mankow loses his job.
But I'll keep listening to Q101 because they also do things like play Green Day's "When I Come Around" directly followed by Remy Zero's "Save Me" directly followed by Weezer's "Hash Pipe."

On a totally different topic, I'd like to revisit Mary and Mark's discussion of poetry vs. prose writing, but I have to go to class right now.

Must remember: KNOCK FIRST

Too young to die
Too rich to cared
Too bored to swear
That I was there.

Desolation, yes!
Hesitation, no!
As you might have guessed
All is never shown
As you might have guessed
We won't make it home
Desolation, yes!
Hesitation, no!

My soul belongs to Plato today

There are different stratas of friendships, I think. The one major failing in the English language is our lack of terms for the types of relationships we have. We have strangers, acquaintances, friends, lovers, spouses, and family. But in between friends and acquaintances there are subtleties that aren't categorizied. Like what do you call people who share your musical interests, but you don't trust? What do you call people who you secretly hate, but they're included in your group of friends? What do you call people who you tell your deepest secrets to, but you can't ever take them to a movie or talk about stupid, inane things? What about the people you hung out with in high school, who know more about you than anyone because they shared a ton of experiences with them, but you still don't necessarily like them? People with different values but good personalities, dumb people who are kind to you but whom you have no mental connection. I don't know what to call these people, so I heap them all under the title of friend. But friendship is valuable, and friendship is sacred. And I think that when it comes down to it, the people whom I really consider my friends, are brilliant and incredible. I just feel terrible that they have to share a name with people who are of less importance, simply because our language is not as far evolved as I would hope.

The girl next to me is having sex. On a Sunday afternoon. Loudly. I really have no opinion, but I'm going to plex for lunch anyway

Mary, G, and I look fabulous with our black hair-dos. If we were not lame and on blogspot, we would upload pictures that we took last night at the party.
At the risk of looking like a poser to the max and jumping on a trend way too late, I am going to buy some 1" pins. I absolutely cannot resist this one.

Back in black.

Why do I always feel so much more powerful and mysterious and sexy with black hair? I don't know. This is being looked into. On the down side, there are black rivers carved into my chest and stomach from my wash-out-dye-in-the-willard-showers episode. And my hands are black also. But my hair looks good, yo.

I went to a Lodge party tonight. It was weird, but the people were cool, so it was a nice chill out thing. willard is good for chilling out. thank heavens I don't live there. I'd study less than I do now.

I want to see this so badly

Anyone who has never heard of/ seen an episode of sifl n' olly has not really lived. I'm dreadfully serious. Its a musical talk show produced by an army of sock puppets. I'm posting you some lyrics from one of their songs, because it makes life better. This one's called "Prostitute Laundry"

I may be a pimp, but I ain't washin' my ho's
(ahh... prostitutes)
Prostitute Laundry!
I may be a pimp, but I ain't washin' my ho's
(ahh... prostitutes)
Prostitute Laundry!


I'm tired of their garter belts and their panty hose
I might be their pimp but I ain't washin' my ho's
I've been to the laundrymat enough times to know
Prostitutes sure got some dirty clothes!

I'm their Sugar Daddy not their laundry man!
(ahh... prostitutes)
Prostitute Laundry!
I think I found some stains that I can't understand!
(ahh... prostitutes)
Prostitute Laundry!


What else should I mention before work? Lets see, lets see. I feel particularly ugly today, which means lots of somber clothes and no makeup. (Strangely, makeup only goes on when I feel pretty. Or at least less hideous.) I'm behind on work. No church tomorrow. And I'm feeling particularly unmotivated. All I want to do is watch sifl n' olly. And when I bring it back after thanksgiving, you will ALL watch it and you will ALL love it.

Oh, and I want to check something out. I have a theory that the only people who visit this webpage are people I know. So thats like, what, 7 people now? If you actually read and like this weblog, but you've never actually met me in person, I want you to IM me: AlexiaIscariot. Lets see how many non-NU people actually care about what my pathetic little ramblings entail.

Oh, and I think I'm seeing Dashboard tonight. That will be lovely.

And nick, man, if you're so prosaic, as your IM message said, then why do you post things like course descriptions?

We really should have used the slogan- "Pat Buchanan is coming... for your soul" to advertise for his upcoming speech. Dude. I would definitely go to see that. Word to Tony.

If anyone "represents everything that is wrong with the majority of Northwestern students," it is a certain DG sister by the name of Ana and her cohorts in my International Relations discussion section.
Each week, Ana and friends sit on one side of the room, exchanging snide remarks and giggles at the comments made by a certain well-informed and articulate student. These greek-letter-wearers have little to add to the discussion, but somehow find this particular student's input offensive to their brittney spears loving ears.
Over the course of the quarter, Ana and co. have gradually become more blatant in their disrespect for anyone who might find discussion of international relations valuable. Looks and giggles have grown into whispers and laughs.
Today, while the aforementioned articulate student and another member of the class were engaged in a discussion of the future of state sovereignty in an increasingly global system, Ana says, across my desk to a girl sitting an aisle over from me, "Why does anyone bother talking to her? She never shuts up."
I turned to her and angrily whispered, "Do you have something more important to add?"
"No," she sputtered indignantly.
"Then shut up and listen," I said, turning away.
It was, sadly, the most gratifying interaction of my day.
Honestly, it really upsets me that I attend the same university as people who have so little respect for knowledge. *Sigh*

At lunch today, the same person who engaged in a discussion of The Unbearable Lightness of Being (a wonderful book) with me reccomended that I go see Mulholland Drive (an absolutely incoherent movie). I found this strange.

I'm not going to try to prove how artsy I am-- I didn't enjoy or understand Mulholand Drive. First, on a positive note, I thought that the score was really cool. I would have been utterly bored if the music hadn't held my attention so well. However, the only remotely coherent plot device was when all the characters switched names and identities after a lock was turned. yes. That was the most coherent part. This is a bad thing. I'm not going to claim to have liked the movie simply because it has a famous director (David Lynch).

Life of Brian= good stuff.

I am a hero, but maybe not the kind most people are used to.

Lets see: pertinent information about my life/day:

LIFE: My life is spinning out of control as more and more obligations and responsabilities mount. I have come to the frightening realization that the surreal dream world of my childhood/adolescence is being forced into awakening by 'busy' work. I can't live my life properly and passionatly in the confines of my schedule. I feel like I'm losing something.

DAY: Watched Life of Brian at G's. The more I learn about Latin and Ancient Rome, as well as early Christianity for that matter, the funnier that movie becomes. I actually went to philosophy. I talked with Professor Wallace about my term paper: Sallust's evalutation of the upper classes as corrupt inJugurtha and The Conspiracy of Cataline. I went out to dinner with Mark and Tony and Nick. Tony and I had Taco Bell. Mark and Nick had Burger King. We sat in a booth in the back so no one would see we were eating non-BK stuff. Russ is in Indiana for some Pike thing. He went with me today to do Buchanan stuff at the daily. My Buchanan posters are being torn down at an alarming rate. I am lazy.

Morality is hard, especially when one wants sex.
I want sex.
Sure, I'm living a self-imposed 'chaste' lifestyle. I recognize I'm sacrificing pleasures now for future rewards, at least in my view. But that doesn't make it any easier. I want sex. And in order to get anything even close to sexual satisfaction, I'm going to have to hit a metal/punk show this week.

I hope my parents don't read this

Poetry is definitly less of a communication tool if the idea that you, the writer, wishes to get across is one of a specific thesis or message. Poetry's real strength lies in its ability to transmit emotions directly and potently. Taking poetry classes, ifone is serious about writing, is particlarly helpful because you are trained in the art of making every single line, word choice, comma, line break, form, and flow mesh into one perfect emotional statement. The idea is that the statement is so powerful and beautiful you can feel what the author wants you to feel. So it is, generally, a much more emotional craft than fiction writing. But it will teach you, Mark specifically, how to streamline and energize your prose, which is in itself very useful.

Just, Ummm, thought I'd say that.

Lets see if I can find a poem of mine to prove that point. Give me a second to look through the related files...

A phoenix clipped a head of flaming hair
And dyed the embered stubble black as hate;
Picasso, soft of skin (a bit too faint)
The sun splinters through your golden eyes fair.
Still my mirage when Time ceases to care;
Count hours enthralled slapping canvas to paint,
Lips contorted, brows concerted on lines of Fate,
The Glyphs of Zodiac fingers: mutable air.
Despite protestations, you radiate: a mosaic
Of light, and body in carbon and phosphorus,
With fingers and spirit outrunning prosaics.
I dream of you dancing on the waves Bosporus,
Between Turkish ships, full-masted archaic
Teeth hungry: my youthful Nostradamus.

That's the only one I can find on my computer. The rest of my stuff is written on the backs of scraps of papers and napkins, hidden or taped into notebooks under my bed. Now I'm going to have to find those. I had some really good stuff last year. I wrote this one in about 20 minutes. I think my meter is off in some places, but you get the general idea. This was actually comissioned. One of my old friends from high school was depressed because she said no one ever wrote a sonnet about her. "One hasn't actually lived passionatly unless a sonnet was been composed for and about one's beauty." So I wrote it for her. She never said anything in return, leading me to assume she was rather horrified that I called her "my youthful Nostradamus" in a manner that implied romantic favor, when of course there was none.

Russ has a weblog. I give the boy credit for being much more prolific than most tech boys are. Even more so than nickd, who is minoring in English. But then, nick never reads this site, so I'm sure he won't be offended if I say that. Russ' site will never, I dare say, reach the high peaks of intellectual glory this site achieves daily.

Oh, and I went to see Mark speak on individual rights this evening. It was rather impressive. He has a fantastic knowledge of objectivism, and he came across as very polished and well spoken. I myself have no talent anymore for public speaking. Something leaked out of my soul when I left debate, I guess. Mark is a continuing suprise, however. If he keeps this up, he may have to be painted into one of my stories. And no one wants that. I think most of my friends live in the perpetual fear that one day I will publish something and they will be a character. They probably will be. All my stories, though they are insane and scary, are always based on real life experiences. Like that guy who thought he was an orange so he peeled himself...and subsequently died. Or the friend of my aunts who thought he was a glass of orange juice, moments away from being spilled.

French time. Now go away. this is enough entertainment for one night. Oh, and to all you CR's: every single one of you besides Tony, Russ, and Matt suck. really and truly. Thanks for nothing. Its cool, really. Postering is a ton of fun

I slept through my alarm. which means that I am so behind on homework I could cry. And I still have to work this afternoon. Why do I feel like my life is slowly spinning out of control? Why couldn't I be a liberal? I swear, the cruel twist behind my philosophy is that I spend so much time living it that I never have any time to talk about it, ie go to meetings or hang out with other people that share my views. Sometimes I get so tired all I want to do is just curl up in a ball and sleep and never leave my room again.

Also, I am copyrighting all stuff published on this page. If I find out for whatever reason one of you sick people have ripped off part of my stories, or all of them, there will be trouble. You will then qualify for entry under the "screwed with me" category, which is not a good place to be. And that is not an empty threat.

There's battle scars on all my guitars
but still I come out here and play
there's battle scars on my face and my arms
but she still kisses me anyway.

Adele and I went out with Mark last night. Mark is well spoken, and he enunciates. This alone is enough to recommend him as a member of my outer circle. Add a dash of objectivism and a basic knowledge of wine, as well as a very impressive knowledge of music and you have excellent potential. We'll see what happens.

The following people linked us, so they get mad props.
Tony Natale, congratulations. you're almost as cool as we are!
Mark, hurray for a pretty two tone webpage of wonder!

Salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt.
Our hearts littering the topsoil.
Tune in and we can get the last call.
Our lives, our coal.
Thats Jimmy Eat World, yo

At the behest of some random dude, I am finally adding an update to this web page.

It's difficult, I think, to be arrogant and talentless.

Here are some relevant things that I have heard in the recent past, because I don't feel capable of speaking for myself right now:

"It's like I've got a map and there are, like, eighty roads on it and I don't know which one to take... and the map's in German, and I don't speak German." (a friend)

"Maybe an unexamined life is not worth living. But a man's examined life can make him wish he was dead." (Saul Bellow, Ravelstein)

more later-

Ok, here is my complete, though still rough draft, version of the story. Keep in mind when I use narrative I, only half the stuff is I Mary. Most of the I is based on people I know. About 90% of this story is true. But necessarily my life true.

"Imbroglio"
Nero used to use Christians as torches for his dinner parties. No-it’s true. Mr. King told me, 8th grade history class. He would dip them up to their necks in pitch, tie them to stakes, and set them on fire. If they survived the dipping, then they would be burned alive. Obviously, in that eventuality, their mouths would be stuffed so they couldn’t scream. That would have ruined the ambiance of the party, and as everyone knows, a good host must safeguard against anything that might upset the mingling. That was the only thing I remember from history that year—that image of burning and burning and writhing and burning, rows of beautiful human phoenixes. That, and Mr. King’s stomach. Skinny legs, skinny arms, and then this beachball size stomach. I was fascinated, and used to dwell for hours about why his body decided to look like that.

I get a phone call in my apartment one night, after I had fallen asleep. I hate being woken up by the phone. It’s enough to make a person rip the whole appliance from the wall.
“What?”
“ Saturnine!” My brother shouted at me, rather voraciously. I held the phone a few inches from my ear, “The world! It’s all water! Water and light, that’s all we are. That’s the answer. The universe is the glass. The flow, the movement, the grand scope of it all! Water!” There was a profound silence on the other end of the phone, as Imbroglio awaited my response to this marvel.
“Mmmmm.”
“Oh, and I think Radiohead’s the musical guest on Conan. Check it out.”
Click.

I always wake up with my pillow wet. Mom said it was spit, and maybe she’s right. But when I was little, I used to imagine that the reason for my rather spotty memory must be that memories flowed out my ear. While I slept, drip drip drip. When I woke up, who knew what had stayed and what had leaked out during the night. Spit indeed.

It was sometime after the nocturnal revelation when Mom checked Imbroglio into some hospital or another. He hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t been team-playing. He had violent dreams. Most disturbing of all, he had taken up religion, becoming more zealous than was proper for the comfort of neighbors and acquaintances. They made him live there, with shiny pills everyday that gorked him out and white coats swirling around him like a snowstorm. I went to see him once. He looked at me with these huge, wide, ocean filled eyes and spoke very slowly and carefully. His corneas would swallow up everything, all light. I remember thinking of one of my vocab tests from high school. Luminosity.
If you knew Mom and Dad, you couldn’t really blame them for what they did. You know, institutionalizing him and whatnot. They just had their own way of doing things, you know? Dad, for example, prided himself on being a Home Owner. Every night after work, he would go out into the back yard and talk with the other Home Owners who lived on the opposite sides of the fence. At 6:00, he would wander over to the right side of the yard, a can of RC Cola in his hand, and proceed to talk with Bob until 6:20. At 6:25, Dave would pop his head over the left side of the fence, and Dad would chat with him. At exactly 6:40, with the RC Cola finished, Dad would return to the house for dinner. I once asked him how this ritual got started. He patted my arm, “You’ll understand when you’re a Home Owner.”
Dad had a superfluous nipple and a third kidney. He had the X-Rays framed and hung in the master bedroom.
“Why’d you do that?”
“’Cause it turns your mother on.” Wink wink.
Mom was a baker of casseroles; I used to think by profession, but in recent years, in my maturity, I’ve come to realize it was just a hobby. She gave them to everyone, but mostly families who had just moved onto our street. She’d put on a dress, a dress, and deliver them personally, saying things like, “Hey neighbor! Welcome to the neighborhood! Just a little neighborly way of saying hello!” Even as a little girl, I can remember thinking surely that’s too many ‘neighbors,’ but no one seemed to mind. Everyone liked Mom; mostly because the she made those casseroles with the macaroni and cheese, diced ham, and cornflakes ontop. Everyone likes those.
Then she’d turn around and do something like naming her children these attention-grabbing, God-awful names only she found amusing. “Imbroglio! Like he’s on fire! Get it?” She would cackle. (My mother actually cackled. I’ve never met anyone before or since who could reproduce scary noises as naturally as my mother could.)

The headline in today’s paper: MAYOR TRIES TO HALT ANTHRAX FALSE ALARMS; “GUACAMOLE IS NOT DANGEROUS,” HE SAYS.

Nuns have significantly higher cases of uterine cancer than normal women. There’s something about not having sex; it rots your insides out. Mom died the same year we checked Imbroglio into the hospital. Only she wasn’t a nun. You want to know what her last words to me were before she died? “There are some casseroles in the freezer, you know, for the wake. Just unwrap them and put them in the oven at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, OK?” I swear to God. I couldn’t make this kind of stuff up. I wish I could tell you something nice, like every time I see a box of Kraft I break down, but I was pretty much fine with it. I just feel kind of guilty—the casseroles looked freezer burned, so I threw them out and made some sandwiches.
After the funeral, I had to visit Imbroglio and tell him the news; you know, explain the whole thing to him. He was a teenager, for heaven’s sake, he should have been able to register it, but whether it was the drugs or just his decaying mind, he didn’t seem to grasp the concept. “You don’t understand, you can’t kill what was never alive,” he whispered conspiratorially. Mom was weird, sure, but I felt he was being kind of harsh on her.
“What do you mean, never alive? Don’t start getting all angsty on me, Imbroglio, like she had to go out and love or whatever to really live, because that would be kind of disrespectful. And really immature.”
“That isn’t,” he breathed, “exactly what I…” he leaned forward, “meant.” So slow, so laborious. It made everything he said sound profound; striking even. “I mean, she’s just water. Her body, soul—just water and light. You can’t kill what was never alive.”
I just sort of nodded. There really isn’t a whole lot you can say to something like that.

My family is directly descended from the Boleyns; Dad’s side, if I remember correctly. When she was pregnant with me, Mom used to pray every night that I would be born with six fingers so she could name me Anne. It appealed to her twisted sensibility, I guess. Needless to say, I was born perfectly normal. I can’t help but feel Mom was a bit disappointed with me.
Dad died a bit after Mom—a few months, maybe. His third kidney had been producing some kind of pods; the little buggers wiggled into his bloodstream and caused baby growths throughout his bloodstream. According to the doctor, one attached to his heart, causing a cardiac arrest. I liked the doctor. He spoke very gravely, with a polished compassion that kept a nice professional distance. I tried to make my emotions equally appropriate, but I had these great mental pictures of his urinary organs giving birth to dozens of babies. Little Baby Kidneys! Then I realized my father was dead, so I checked myself just in time.
Since Mom and Dad were gone, it was my job to visit Imbroglio every week. When he asked where Dad was, I told him Dad had been spilled. He seemed OK with that answer.
Dad left me the house—a big old Victorian thing—and a quite a bit of money, which was pretty swell of him. I took the money and promptly invested in some real estate, pumping fluid capital into a lower tax bracket and drawing out 8.9% interest from the bank, which was enough to keep me from working. Leaving the office was easier than I thought it would be. Mostly because I had never really bothered to get close to anyone there. Jim from Marketing, or John, I’m really bad with names, came up to me and was all, “We’ll miss you, kiddo!” Then he hugs me and starts rubbing my shoulder up and down, telling me how good I am to sacrifice myself to help a crazy brother. I was never going to come back after that, man.
The first night I spent in the house, sleeping alone, I felt violated by the emptiness. It spread its dirty fingers over everything. I don’t really like the dark that much, anyway.

I brought Imbroglio home from the hospital, and he looked at his house like it was a church or something. I gave him a glass of water and two very shiny looking pills. He sort of backed away from them. It’s not a recoil, just an avoidance. His huge eyes went back and forth between my hand and my face.
“I-- ” he stopped. He began to blink away tears. I had never seen my brother cry before, and I didn’t want to start now, in a cold kitchen, over a cheap 7-11 cup. So I threw the medicine away. I felt guilty, you know? It’s just not right to do that to someone.

In the entire course of my life, I’ve only fallen in love once. You know the diatribe Youth is wasted on the young? That hits home for me, because I was 15 when it happened. One of those dumb church retreats, young women’s camp or whatever. We had to do this retarded thing called a trust walk, where the councilors took us to some field around midnight and had us walk across it alone. I don’t remember what it was supposed to teach us, but I was happy to get away from our perpetually glossed leaders. It was very beautiful out, cool; Texas summer cool, the kind that’s warm but sort of kisses your neck. I was walking through the tall grass when I trip over this girl. She’d been lying on her back, staring up at the sky. I fell on the ground next to her. She sat up and looked at me, surprised but not concerned. I stared at her, and she was magic, just blinding. The moon hit her hair, creating a smoldering orange halo around her. Her skin was the color of pine, and her eyes. Her eyes. They were star-laced. It’s hard to describe, star-laced: a lot like glitter, like pools of water after a rock is thrown in.
“I hate myself and everyone else.” She said.
“So do I,” I whispered, because it was true then.
I never touched her—we were letter-writing lovers. I wanted to, though. I’d see her at church, in the pew with her parents, and it was all I could do not to lean forward and brush my lips against the back of her neck. I adored her, and I adored the way everything seemed mysterious and important and sacred when I was around her. She had so much hate though. I had so much guilt. We burned out as quickly as we flamed up. I never saw her after she left for Pratt. Painting. I still wake up some nights, wondering what her skin tasted like.

My brother gathered the Congregation a few months after he moved into the house. At first, he would just put breadcrumbs on the windowsill, then sit back and wait. There were always tons of crows littering the trees around our neighborhood. Somehow the crows heard about the free food, and like a swarm of college students, they descended. They just attacked the breadcrumbs. I would watch outside his door sometimes, it was that extraordinary. On a good day, the murder would be at least 40 or 50 strong. Imbroglio eventually figured out they preferred seeds to breadcrumbs, syrup mixed in the batch, a little bit of water. He would talk to them, stroke them, tell them stories. Anytime of day I walked past his room, I could hear squawking, the low murmur of his voice. On retrospect I guess I can see the significance of the Congregation, but at the time I figured it was simply another example of my brother’s increasingly moldy mind.
I was so much older than my brother—fourteen when he was born. I was already at college by the time he started getting a personality. Sure, I’d see him around Christmas or Easter, usually. He had my parents’ eccentricities, right from the start I noticed that, but he always had a way of comforting me that they never seemed to learn. Sending me unsigned cards in the mail. Making midnight calls, as much as they annoyed me. Giving me weird presents like orange construction cones. He thought about me when I wasn’t around, which was the best part. Knowing someone else thinks of you.
This girl got expelled from school when I was in junior high for breaking the laminating machine. She was always a queer little thing—too bookish, too pale, too thin, too quiet. She started laminating pictures on insects around December—some kind of macabre Christmas card or whatever. After break she had moved on to laminating actual insects—trapping crickets and roaches and whatever else she could find between sticky sheets of plastic. Then one day Mr. Catterson walked into the Audio Visual room (that’s where we kept the machine. Don’t ask me why), and he saw this girl by the laminator with blood and feathers all over the place. The legs and torso of some sparrow were just barely sticking out of one end, jammed halfway through. I wanted to go down and see it, but my teacher told me I’d get a detention if I did. My next reaction was something along the lines of: Why didn’t she just get a car to back over it a few times so it would be flat? Doesn’t that moron know anything about laminating?

Imbroglio’s eyes had become normal size again. When he talked, he didn’t sounds like Christopher Walken. These are good things. They made me happy.

I have to tell you, honestly, the roof thing came as a real surprise. I thought I had been doing a pretty good job of keeping an eye on Imbroglio. I checked in on him daily, cleaned his room once a week, gave him his freedom. He wasn’t a schizo, for crying out loud. He wasn’t going to come and kill me in my sleep. He just saw things differently, like my parents, but with lower quality equipment to work with. He was crafty, though. I didn’t realize how much until that Sunday. I was in the kitchen, reading the paper, when it started raining outside. After a few minutes, a drop of water fell on my article. So I looked up, right, and the ceiling was covered with beads of rain, like marbles. I ran upstairs to see where the water’s coming from, and I notice the carpet outside my brother’s room is sopping wet. I opened the door, and found myself standing in a deluge. He had sawed off the frickin’ roof. There was no roof. At all. Above me, I could hear the rumbling of thunder, see the swirling rock-gray clouds. Looking around, I noticed that he had taken some of the lumber and piping and made stands for the Congregation to perch on; some attached to the wall, some free standing. I wanted to yell and be furious and angry, but then I looked at him. He was lying on his bed, arms spread out, kind of absorbing the rain. His hair was plastered down, and he was smiling. It was probably the best day of his life. So I did the obvious thing: I drove to Home Depo to pick up some plastic sheeting to line the floor.
There’s a fine line between living alone and living loneliness. I’ve spent most of my life balancing that tightrope. I like living alone. About a year ago, I was reading this Time Magazine article on money laundering. There was a delightful, esthetically drawn diagram on how to make money from heroin sales to private enterprise. I was about halfway through reading when the phone rang, and one thing led to another, and life intervened. The point is, I came back a week later and the magazine was exactly where I left it, on the exact same page. That is what I like about living alone. But the chemistry of living things easily alchemies into loneliness. When she first left for college, and even for sometime after, I felt the emptiness more keenly; an inner aching, even though I hadn’t spoken to her since sophomore year. Around the same time I stopped praying, now that I think about it. But there was something about her leaving. Love is like that. When you love someone, you have to leave yourself open and wide and vulnerable. You become sensitive. Then you hurt.
When I was eleven or so, I used to have Mom leave the hall light on while I tried to fall asleep. The light would seep through the cracks in the door, just enough for me to sense what was in the room. But as I was drifting off to sleep, she’d turn it off. Even though my eyes were closed, I could tell the light had gone. My chest grew a little colder.

Once the roof came off, the Congregation grew. I would come into his room and they would be there, looking at him. He started calling them the Congregation when he started to tell them his secrets. Telling them about God, Love, Beauty, Truth, Water. The crows would listen all day, tilting their heads, as if trying to hold onto his words more effectively. At the end of each sermon, he would give them all water and birdseeds and they would be dismissed, all flying into the night sky. I listened to Imbroglio a couple of times; his talks were bizarre, to say the least, but I liked to fancy that my brother was only choosing his audience.
“Love is like glass. If it breaks, you can only put it together by melting the elements and blowing them, blowing them through ovarian tubes until you have a baby ball of glass love. Melted love, my friends.”
Love is important.

When my brother left me, it hurt me more than I thought it would. Dave and Bob, upset that as a Home Owner I was shunning their company, quickly took notice of the Congregation and the roofless room. Like the attentive neighbors they were, they made it their personal duty to inform the local authorities that perhaps I was being negligent. Perhaps there was truth in that; perhaps I was pragmatic. Either way, I opened the door one morning to find several suited men, both white and cop and business, eager to take a look at my brother’s redecoration. I let them in, even though I knew they were going to take him away from me. I had an unfortunate respect for authority. Like all good philosophy students I had read Plato’s Dialogues. I knew that an individual has an obligation to respect the social contract. I just felt that the social contract happened to come down on my liberties a little too severely.
We opened the door to my brother’s room. It was noon, so I saw him drenched in sunlight. As my eyes adjust, I realized he was a bit shinier than usual. Imbroglio has drenched himself in Karo Syrup. He looks at the men and waved. His congregation surrounded him, ruffling feathers and clicking their beaks.
“Jesus died for the sins of the world,” he said, syrup dripping off his hair. “I’m not Jesus, but I think he had the right idea.” With that, Imbroglio threw a bag of birdseeds over his body. The hard husks stuck to the golden syrup. I remember thinking, that boy looks like an anthill. Then there was a huge noise, like a storm. The congregation swooped down on Imbroglio. For a moment, he looked like a black blue torch, all wings and eyes and claws. There was no screaming, no blood. And in a flurry of feathers, they were gone. And so was my brother.

There’s this comic strip called The Far Side; I was initially drawn to it by the plethora of cow jokes. Cows are funny. But anyway, throughout high school, I had one particular strip taped up to my locker. It had two kids with suitcases sneaking out of a tent. Underneath, there was this caption that said something like, “Much to the shame of their parents, Dale Barnum and John Bailey ran away one night to join Corporate America.” I laughed so hard the first time I read it, I was almost in tears. I took it with me a few years later when I ran away to business school.

For a while, after Imbroglio left, I slept in his room, with the hall light on. I would look up at the sky and wonder where he was. The crows in the trees around our house had been silent since my brother had…disappeared. The quiet would pour in through the hole above my head, washing over me, and I one night I found myself crying. I clutched the blankets as these sobs ripped through my body, being torn from parts of my body I had forgotten about. It didn’t take long; our bodies aren’t meant to deal with passion. I laid on the bed, gutted, and I wanted to do anything to stop the emptiness. So I prayed. It sounds terrible when I say it like that, like I was so pathetic and weak I had to fall back on the abstruse. But it wasn’t like that, really. I had forgotten how, it had been so long. I prayed for strength, for light. I prayed never to become a Home Owner, or a Casserole Baker. I can’t really talk about it. What do you talk about when you talk to God, you know?
My final amen echoed through the room, then slowly seeped into the sky. I closed my eyes. Later that night, the cacophony of crows’ voices woke me out of a dreamless sleep. I went over and turned out the hall light, then made my way back to bed.

At this point I am updating because I do not want to start working on my story. and its 230am.
Link: Savage Love
Link topic: Masturbation Horrors III

WhatRuss: Dave's talking to me...
AlexiaIscariot: about what?
WhatRuss: he's just complaining again
WhatRuss: (dave in madison)
AlexiaIscariot: complaining about what? girls?
WhatRuss: he always Ims me right as I'm about to leave somewhere
WhatRuss: no, classes, midterms
WhatRuss: dave isn't really into girls
WhatRuss: or guys for that matter
WhatRuss: he's disinterested altogether - rather remarkable
WhatRuss: asexual I believe it's termed
WhatRuss: I mean, when put in a situation, he would "perform", but it wouldn't have much weight to him
WhatRuss: but enough about dave's psyche
AlexiaIscariot: thats really funny
WhatRuss: yeah, it kind of is
AlexiaIscariot: I mean, ask him if he reproduces by pods
AlexiaIscariot: look, little daves all around the room
WhatRuss: he's complaining about no girlfriend, yet he makes no effort....
WhatRuss: VaultMoe: ah, I've been working on hooking up with this girl down the hall.
AlexiaIscariot: random hookups=good time
WhatRuss: VaultMoe: she's not increadibly hot, but I don't really care. we get along well and have a good time.
AlexiaIscariot: love it
WhatRuss: yeah, it's a good laugh here and there
AlexiaIscariot: Oh, and if [person X] ever asks me, i'm going to say i was so heartbroken over losing you that there's no POSSIBLE way I could date anyone else. EVER.
WhatRuss: just act all psycho and say that we're actually engaged
AlexiaIscariot: you know what i think i need to do? vicki told me how to do it once..
AlexiaIscariot: (good idea)
WhatRuss: then start screaming hysterically until he runs away
WhatRuss: what did vicki say?
AlexiaIscariot: you cover someones door frame with duct tape, leaving a small crack. then crumple up paper and stick it through the window you left
AlexiaIscariot: when the person opens their door in the morning, a wall of paper falls on them
WhatRuss: [person X]'s very emotional. So in his case, we should use toilet paper
AlexiaIscariot: *fell off the chair laughing*
AlexiaIscariot: the toilet paper, though. thats so mean, and yet, so fitting
WhatRuss: lol
WhatRuss: [X] really is unstable though
WhatRuss: not to mention he wants to join pike! AAAAHHHHH
AlexiaIscariot: Oh man! That would suck for you
AlexiaIscariot: tell him no
AlexiaIscariot: tell him id go on one date with him if he would refrain from rushing pike
WhatRuss: whoa! you wouldn't...
AlexiaIscariot: one date. and he would have to pay. and it would have to be something where he was ACROSS the table
WhatRuss: heck, make it a nice place if he's paying.

I just did something tonight that I haven't done in a year. And I have no idea why.

I actually have to rotate how many times a month I can listen to Pumpkins music for fear of being too obsessive/wearing it out. Unfortunatly, you, reader, have arrived at one of the cycles. But I think its going to start ebbing. My week is up.

There is a particular grime that exists on some of the older books in the library. I have come to the conclusion that this grime, or "book vomit," is the most disgusting thing known to man. Linen-bound books, or books bound in rough canvas, are not quite as bad; the vomit lurks in the pits of the fibers, and my fingers cling to the top, minimalizing contact. However, this afternoon, I was forced to move a good number of very old, cardboard bound (ie slick) books from one shelf to another. My hands, with nothing to seperate them from the grime, became covered in book vomit. I washed my hands, but I can still feel it. My skin is crawling.

I have never hated Pat Buchanan more than I do at this moment.

So get this: for one night only, at Facets, the Pumpkins are debuting their new documentary. But its November 13. Hmmm, that would be the day Pat is coming to NU. I have to have dinner with Pat. And even if hypothetically I get done with dinner very quivkly, we'll be done at 730, its an hour el ride, and a 20 minute walk. I'd miss it. One night only. *sigh* Responsibility sucks.

My womb belongs to Billy Corgan.

Lets do Pumpkins quotes, because I can:
"Blissed and Gone"
The sun is left, the rays are gone
and all the kids have left their tears and gone home
Sweet 17, Sour 29
And I can't explain myself what I hoped to find
You were all kind when I was near
And if you're still feeling down
Than maybe you need me around
To love and hold you, to say I hadn't told you so
Maybe you need me around
I had no luck, I had no shame
I had no cause, just 17 days of rain
and you in my eyes.
Just one more song to slay this earth
and I can't explain myself just what its worth
it was all I had but not all I'd need
and I can't escape the fact that I still bleed
and if you're still feeling down
than if it seems way too loud
than maybe you need me around
I had no voice, I had no drive
I had no choice I'd done my time
I had myself, had my band, had my love
had no hand in watching it all fall apart.

I should call him.

nickd has been blocked from my buddy list under both his names. He was rude to me without provocation. How many times do I have to explain to you people: I may be nice, and I may listen, and I may put up with bantering, both nice and mean spirited. But guess what? You are not rude to me and you do NOT try and screw around with me.

On that note. Postering time.

Actually, everything becomes better, somehow. Knowing that I'm the Shermanatrix. Or at least, worthy, to one day become the Shermanatrix. And if Adele and I get the appartment over the Sherm, then, my friends, things will fall into place.

Mary- you are the Shermanatrix. That is the best compliment I can give.
Somehow, my compliment seems kind of lame.... oh well.

First of all, I added a new white trash song to my white trash collection: John Melloncamp, with that great 80's song "Hurts so Good". You know you love it.

Second of all, I am once again single. But instead of being dumped for being an emotional mess, I got dumped for being too collected, too confident, and too 'moral.' The world once again makes no sense. Suprisingly, I bear few emotional scars from said termination of mutual affection. Mostly because I believe that when you truly care for someone, you care about their happiness. I think I wrote a poem last year about it, lets see if I can find it *leaves computer*. Nah man, other notebook. But it was something like: I love you so much/ I expect your apathy/ with unmarred adoration. Now while I didn't love the boy, I still kind of feel like that. He can give me apathy, we can be friends; I don't really care. I just want him to be happy. And you know what? He deserved me. That's the best compliment I can give.

I think I might miss the physical aspects, though; running his thumb over my knuckles, touching my neck when he kissed me. Vibrators just aren't the same, you know?

I want to be the Shermanatrix.

I adore the sherman restaurant. It is the mo-foing best place in Evanston, and you should eat there.

However, I am not receiving the respect that I deserve in my professional capacity. I have simply requested that when I am working, people refer to me as "the shermanatrix." This is a completely logical request. I fail to understand how it has not caught on among my friends, family and co-workers.

Perhaps a friendly reminder, in the form of a name tag, would help.

I think I've figured it out. You know, my earlier conundrum. Why don't I write all the time? Here's why. And its circuitous and complicated, because there's no one reason.
a) Because I generally like spending time with the people I've chosen as my friends. I don't need them, I am not crushed if they leave, but I like them. They make me happy. I can achieve happiness on my own, but I only have 4 years to achieve it with them.
b) Because I don't like to waste chances or opportunites. That leads to regret. I've spent my entire life trying to be able to do as many things as possible, to experience life in a passionate sort of way. Every time I go out, sure, most likely I'll just spend the evening doing something quiet. But chances are there could be an adventure, or a really intense moment. I want to be there for that.
c) Every person has something to teach you. The more you go out with other people and listen to their stories and dreams and opinions, the more you can come to a realization of who people are. I guess I'm looking for a grand unified theory of personality.

In order to be a writer, you have to live and experience life before you can record it. And that's what I'm doing, it's what I've always done. And guess what? I don't regret. And I live my life now exactly the way I always wanted to live it. Maybe there aren't enough hours in the day, maybe I can't write as much as I want, maybe I do get sick of people. But generally, I'm very happy doing what I'm doing now.

So there.

I was supposed to go out and see a movie with adele and g and whatever. Instead, I come to russ' room around 8 to meet an objectivist boy. He was lovely and interesting and all, but I can't help but feel 4 hours of my night has been wasted, because all I did was talk about abstract things. I am very weirded out and very not happy. Pretty depressed, actually. And I'm sick, and I've been working too hard lately. And things in certain areas are so bizarre and ethereal and I don't know why. Grrrr.

But lets talk about something positive, because otherwise I'm going to get all moody and weird. a) I have Billy Corgan's private phone number and address. b) I got an A on my Latin midterm. Not an A-, but an A. c) My creative writing teacher loved my short story. this is a first.

I wish I wasn't Mormon, cause I'd drink myself into an oblivion right now. As it is, I'm just going to mope around and be self absorbed for a day.

A note of interest:

Russ's IM profile is evolving. The week that he joined PIKE (some frat), he added PKA in small letters to the bottom of his profile. A few days later, PKA was written in a large font, in bold. Today, the very first thing in his profile is PKA - boola boola (whatever the heck that means) in large, bold letters. This seems to indicate the growing dominance of PIKE in his social sphere, and would perhaps explain why he passed up seeing Waking Life with us (most notably with his girlfriend Mary) to get drunk with a bunch of frat boys. Food for thought.

Waking Life was really beautiful. Go see it.

Before we left to see it though, we went to Mr. Riggins' room in order to bother him. Which, judging by the curt replies and disinterested manner, is exactly what we ended up doing. But, that's not the point. The point is: we're sitting around on the floor and I think I say something to the effect of, "If it was up to me, I'd spend all day in my room, writing. I'd never leave, I'd never talk to anyone. Just write." To which Mr. Riggins replied, "Why don't you then?" It was kind of one of those off the cuff comments that obviously was not supposed to mean anything; I think I replied lamely that I needed people interaction or I would go crazy. That isn't true. I don't know why I said it. But I thought a lot about that question later. Occasionally, Mr. Riggins will make very salient and cutting questions/comments that actually cut through a lot of the self-legend I've made. I'm not sure I like that, but it keeps things interesting.

So why don't I just write everyday? Why don't I just spend everyday inside and work at what I love doing? I have no idea. I'll post an idea when I have one. Here's a question: why do I like black? Why do I like shock value? Why do I like to have power? have status? respect? Why do I take such pains in crafting my own story, rather than let other people figure me out through experience? Why am I repulsed by the idea of playing for a team, but am equally repulsed by liberals who go to lengths to prove society is evil and conformist?

So there we are.

KARL! The world becomes interesting again. My sister once asked Karl if Rivers could come to winter formal. Karl responded that he was too busy revcording the Green Album, but that "Rivers says he's really sorry" Is that not the cutest thing ever? I think so

Today, I received a personal e-mail from Karl Koch, of weezer.com fame. Who wants to touch me?

the proof:

----- Original Message -----
From: karl@weezer.net
To: Ade1e
Sent: Thursday, November 01, 2001 6:09 AM
Subject: RE: acoustic undone and waking life mystery


Tim "Speed" Levitch. go rent the documentary "the Cruise". its about him, and its vastly entertaining.

-karl

-----Original Message-----
From: Ade1e
Sent: Thursday, November 01, 2001 12:08 AM
To: karl@weezer.net
Subject: acoustic undone and waking life mystery


Karl,

I just saw Richard Linklater's new movie, Waking Life, with my weezer-loving friend Mary. We both agreed that one of the movie's characters (the guy with the fro on the bridge- if you've seen it) is most definitely the same person who talked all that crazy stuff for the acoustic version of Undone. (you know-- "language was invented so people could lie, don't just say 'i love you' let your love perspire and fly (etc).")

This is going to drive me utterly insane. Can you possibly tell me the name of the person who is talking in that version of Undone? I can't find it anywhere.

I know you get tons of mail, but you really could save me from eternal confusion if you could answer this question.

Thanks a million!

ade1e

------------
As Mary pointed out, it is pathetic that we were correct about the voice of Tim Levitch. But it's still quite fantastic that Karl e-mailed me six hours after I e-mailed him.

On a related note, I really enjoyed Waking Life. The highlight of the movie for me was a character who drove around in his car with a police style PA system screaming to anyone who might be able to hear that we should stand up and not allow ourselves to be "crammed into this rat maze!" while turning shades of blue, purple, orange, and red. I also really liked Levitch's character who said that he goes "salsa dancing with his confusion" and compared life to a "Dostovesky novel starring clowns."

AlexiaIscariot: whatcha doing tonight?
Tonatale: no idea
Tonatale: no plans
AlexiaIscariot: hmmmm
Tonatale: maybe Russ can squeeze in something to do between 7:45 and 8

Before I go to bed and crash and die, and partly to keep tony happy, I'm going to list all the mp3's I've downloaded in the last 3 days so you can see how sick and sad I really am:
1) The Wind, Cat Stevens
2) Sorry About That, Alkaline Trio
3) Napoleon, Ani DiFranco
4) Fuel, ""
5) Little Plastic Castle, ""
6) Barbarella, Scott Weiland
7) Sing, Travis
8) Pretty Noose, Soundgarden
9) American Badass, Kid Rock
10) Bawitdaba, ""
11) Cowboy, ""
12) Here Comes My Baby, Cat Stevens
13) Big Bang Baby, Stone Temple Pilots
14) Lady Picture Show, ""
15) Cut You In, Jerry Cantrell
16) I Love Rock N Roll, Joan Jett
17) Overcome, Live
18) Wait, Huffamoose
19) Hanging by a Moment, Lifehouse
20) Name, Goo Goo Dolls
21) I'm a Slave 4 U, Britney Spears
22) Makin' Time, Rushmore Soundtrack
23) Stars Falling, Smashing Pumpkins

I think I'm going to add some Marilyn Manson, Nina Simone, and Ella Fitzgerald. I think that much wraps up my guilty pleasures. I'm so dirty.

Speaking of dirty, I'm getting sick, and my voice is all scratchy and deep. I sound like a phone sex operator. Is that a bad thing? I'm still deciding.

you know what? My short stories may not be very good, but I like this one. Even if it sucks, I like it. Here's the first half, kind of as a shout out to nickd's friend justin, who's dad has three kidneys.

Story:
Nero used to use Christians as torches for his dinner parties. No-it’s true. Mr. King told me, 8th grade history class. He would dip them up to their necks in pitch, tie them to stakes, and set them on fire. If they survived the dipping, then they would be burned alive. Obviously, in that eventuality, their mouths would be stuffed so they couldn’t scream. That would have ruined the ambiance of the party, and as everyone knows, a good host must safeguard against anything that might upset the mingling. That was the only thing I remember from history that year—that image of burning and burning and writhing and burning, rows of beautiful human phoenixes. That, and Mr. King’s stomach. Skinny legs, skinny arms, and then this beachball size stomach. I was fascinated, and used to dwell for hours about why his body decided to look like that.

I get a phone call in my apartment one night, after I had fallen asleep. I hate being woken up by the phone. It’s enough to make a person rip the whole appliance from the wall.
“What?”
“ Saturnine!” My brother shouts at me, rather voraciously. I put the phone a few inches from my ear, “The world! It’s all water! Water and light, that’s all we are. That’s the answer. The universe is the glass. The flow, the movement, the grand scope of it all! Water!” There was a profound silence on the other end of the phone, as Imbroglio awaited my response to this marvel.
“Mmmmm.”
“Oh, and I think Radiohead is the musical guest on Conan. Check it out.”
Click.

I always wake up with my pillow wet. Mom said it was spit, and maybe she’s right. But when I was little, I used to imagine that the reason for my rather spotty memory must be that memories flowed out my ear. While I slept, drip drip drip. When I woke up, who knows what has stayed and what has leaked out during the night. Spit indeed.

It was sometime after the nocturnal revelation when Mom checked Imbroglio into some hospital or another. He hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t been team-playing. He had violent dreams. Most disturbing of all, he had taken up religion, becoming more zealous then was proper for the comfort of neighbors and acquaintances. They made him live there, with pills everyday which gorked him out and white coats swirling around him like a snowstorm. I went to see him once. He looked at me with these huge, wide, ocean filled eyes and spoke very slowly and carefully. His eyes would swallow up everything, all light. I remember thinking of one of my vocab tests from high school. Luminosity.

If you knew mom and dad, then you couldn’t really blame them for what they did. You know, institutionalizing him and whatnot. They just had their own way of doing things, you know? Dad, for example, prided himself on being a Home Owner. Every night after work, he would go out into the back yard and talk with the other Home Owners who lived on the opposite sides of our fence. At 6:00, he would wander over to the right side of the fence, a can of RC Cola in his hand, and proceed to talk with Bob until 6:20. At 6:25, Dave would pop his head over the left side of the fence, and Dad would chat with him. At exactly 6:40, with the RC Cola finished, he would go inside for dinner. I asked him once how this ritual got started. He patted my arm,“You’ll understand when you’re a Home Owner.”
Dad had a surpurflous nipple and a third kidney. He had the X-Rays framed and hung in the master bedroom.
“Why’d you do that?”
“Cause it turns your mother on,” wink wink.
Mom was a baker of casseroles; I used to think by profession, but in recent years, in my maturity, I’ve realized it was just a hobby. She gave them to everyone, but mostly families who had just moved onto our street. She’d put on a dress, a dress, and deliver them personally, saying things like, “Hey neighbor! Welcome to the neighborhood! Just a little neighborly way of saying hello!” Even as a youth, I can remember thinking Surely that’s too many ‘neighbors’ but no one seemed to mind. Everyone liked Mom, mostly because the she made those casseroles with the macaroni and cheese, diced ham, and cornflakes on top. Everyone likes those.
Then she’d go around and do something like naming her children these attention grabbing, God-awful names only she finds amusing. “Imbruglio! Like he’s on fire! Get it?” She would cackle. (My mother actually cackled. I’ve never met anyone before or since who could replicate chicken noise as naturally as my mother.)

Nuns have significantly higher cases of uterine cancer than normal women. There’s something about not having sex; it rots your insides out. Mom died the same year we checked Imbroglio into the hospital. Only she wasn’t a nun. You want to know what her last words to me were before she died? “There are some casseroles in the freezer, you know, for the wake. Just unwrap them and put them in the oven at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, OK?” I swear to God. I couldn’t make this kind of stuff up. I wish I could tell you something nice, like every time I see a box of Kraft I break down, but I was pretty much fine with it. I just feel kind of guilty—the casseroles looked freezer burned,so I threw them out and made some sandwiches.

After the funeral, I had to visit Imbroglio and tell him the news, you know, explain the whole thing to him. He was a teenager, for heavens sake, he should have been able to register it, but whether it was the drugs or just his decaying mind, he didn’t seem to grasp it. “You don’t understand, you can’t kill what was never alive,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. Mom was weird, but I felt he was being kind of harsh on her.
“What do you mean, never alive? Don’t start getting all angsty on me, Imbroglio, like she had to go out and love or whatever to really live, because that would be kind of disrespectful. And really immature.”
“That’s not what I mean,” So slow, so laborious. It made everything he said sound profound; striking even. “I mean, she’s just water. Her body, soul—just water and light. You can’t kill what was never alive.”
I just kind of nodded. There really isn’t a whole lot you can say to something like that.

My family is directly descended from the Boleyns; Dad’s side, I think. When she was pregnant with me, Mom used to pray every night that I would be born with six fingers so she could name me Anne. It appealed to her twisted sensibility, I guess. Needless to say, I was born perfectly normal. I can’t help but feel mom was a disappointed with me.

Dad died a bit after Mom—a few months, maybe. His third kidney had been producing some kind of pods; the little buggers wiggled into his bloodstream and caused baby grows to occur throughout his bloodstream. One attached to his heart, causing a cardiac arrest, according to the doctor. I liked the doctor. He spoke very gravely, with a polished compassion that kept a nice professional distance. I tried to make my emotions equally appropriate, but I had these great mental pictures of his urinary organs giving birth to dozens of babies. Little Baby Kidneys! Then I realized my father was debt, so I checked myself just in time.

Since Mom and Dad were gone, it was my job to visit Imbroglio every week. When he asked where Dad was, I told him Dad had been spilled. He seemed OK with that answer.

Dad left me the house—a big old Victorian thing—and a bit of money, which was pretty swell of him. The first night I spent there, sleeping alone, I felt violated by the emptiness. It spread its dirty fingers over everything. I don’t really like the dark that much, anyway; I never have.

This is an update for Tony because I know he'll read it.

This is quite explicitly not an update in any way intended to serve nickd, despite the fact that he believes he is my sole inspiration and reason for existing. I can say this because Nick has been so gracious as to mention publicly and frequently that he "has never accessed this page."

In other news, both Mary and Adele are motivated only to eat, sleep, and possibly engage in sexual activity, but probably not even that. And both of us have large volumes of work due this week. FABOO!

"just because i dress like this, doesn't mean I'm a communist." -L.F. and the bastards

Dude, Ok. So I'm at the willard party right now. Its rather lame, but then its only like 930 so it should get better. there were a couple of ho's in russ' room wearing too-tight clothes. G is already severly wasted. Anne isn't here, and I have not yet reached crucial hyperactivity stage. This is all not good, but perhaps things will get better later. We will see. As of now I'm in Russ' room waiting for anne to call. that sucks But then, I look fabulous tonight, so things have a way of working themselves out naturally. grrrr.

The following are not lies. they are absolutly true.
1) I have an illegitimate child that is becing raised by my HIV-positive, on and off lover Enrique. He lives in puerto rico.
2) I have a third eye. It's hidden in my hairline.
3) I am the coolest person you have ever known and/or ever will no
4) I was raised on a diet of lubricant and 3 inch nails. My parents wanted to me to be tough
5) I have secretly aborted tony natale's love child

Thats all for now. This is a particularly horrid week. and I haven't done anything because i've been working. and this weekend will be worse. shopping on friday, work and willard on saturday. so basically i have sunday to complete the studying and writing necessary for survival next week. that is not a good thing.

i can't think of anything else to say. Maybe some western civ humor:
Thucydides work ended in mid sentance. That is unusual for a book.

Ok, maybe you had to be there.

"I think you guys are going to have to come up with a lot of wonderful new lies, or people just aren't going to want to go on living." (KV, Sh-5)

I am in need of some wonderful new lies tonight. If you have any you'd like to tell me, I would be happy to hear them. Thank you for your time.

Its true though. But adele made everything better last night and I'm trying very hard to get better, so we'll see what happens.

So right, last night we go to Giordanos and no one shows up but adele and I and tom sherman. It was very lovely, even if tom couldn't see. and he drove us home. so tom is getting mad props from me, i'll tell you that.

So I get home and adele and I do girl talk for a while, because we do, and go down to visit the boyz (tm). G wasn't there, so we left him a rant on his board, and russ was asleep. Asleep! At 1045. So I tell him I'm leaving him for tom sherman.

this week is terrible. kill me know.

I'd like to take this moment to register a formal complaint about Mary's most recent post. I sincerely disagree with all sentiments expressed therein. She is blatantly lying to our innocent and trusting readers. I whole-heartedly disapprove of such misconduct.

In other news, I purchased an absolutely amazing vintage dress at Ragstock for $12. It's bright pink with pink sequins at the neck and sleeves and is cut like an early 70s go-go dress. This dress is a good enough reason to attend the Willard Formal next month. And not many things could make me want to attend a formal.

It's a Crazy Republican Monday.

word.

that story I posted? its gone. because it sucked. it sucked like every other frickin' short story I write sucked. You want to know why? Because I'm a bad writer. because I've kidded myself into thinking I have talent in an arena I have no talent in. My work is heavy handed, juvenile, and angsty. I don't know why I even bother.

In half an hour I will be off to take a midterm in a subject for which I've done less than half of the reading. I could be studying right now, but instead I'm doing this, because I suck and I have no motivation.

I wonder if I will ever be able to justify working hard again. No substantive consequences come out of the mediocre, slap-dash, last-minute work I am so accustomed to doing now, so why exactly, should I bother to do anything that might take more effort?

On some level, knowledge does matter to me. I want to expand my worldview. I want to be an informed intellectual. I’ve always felt that searching for truth is the most fundamental aspect of “the good life.” That should be enough motivation to do some schoolwork, or at least to read a book or a newspaper or something.

But somehow, I am bogged down in this existential apathy, where I convince myself that any effort I expend is just going to dissipate into the air.

All I can do is be completely inert and introspective. I can’t take any form of action; I don’t even know where to begin. I can’t even be properly mean and anti-social.

Can someone provide me with an alternative to being this silly caricature of a rebel?


I wanna live in a city with no friends or family
I'm gonna look out the window of my color T.V.
I wanna remember to remember to forget you forgot me
I'm gonna look out the window of my color T.V.
Through the cracks in the wall
Slow motion for all
Dripped out of the bars
Someone smart said nothin’ at all
I'm watching T.V.
I guess that’s a solution
(modest mouse, a different city)

Tonight unfortunatly sucked, although it had the potential to be wonderful. Day's like that are the worst.

First, I wake up and the heat still hasn't been turned on in my room. I am so cold that I do not get up until 11, effectivly knowcking out what chance I might have had for studying in the morning. Go to my only class of the day. its been cancelled. So I could have stayed in bed all day and been realy rested, instead of quasi-rested.

Second, at work, I'm given the job of shelf moving. worst job ever. Not only was it mindnumbing and exhausting, but the books kept falling over, making a huge commotion. then the shelve-stays would fall out for no reason, making a resounding "clank'clankity'clank" that echoed all across 3E tower.

Third, the french department screwed up my grades, so they said I had a 76 average, which sent me into a panic. Upon going and straightening it out, obviously they were wrong, but its the principle.

Forth, all of my friends bailed on the metro party. While they were all incredibly busy and all had wonderful excuses, it still didn't help that I was forced to go mingle with a bunch of people I didn't know, toute seule. This just means that you all owe me. I haven't decided what exactly...=)

Fifth, the metro party itself. I knew it was bad when I had to walk two miles in a short skirt to get to the guys house. In the dark. In a neighborhood I didn't know. I had no idea I would be in that situation, and it was a really really long walk. So I get there, and it turns out I'm early, since the party doesn't start until 11. So I hang around for half an hour before people get there making uncomfortable small talk with people I don't know. I go over to the punch bowl, drink two cups worth, before Scott tells me its heavily spiked. I feel really guilty, even though I haven't done anything willingly wrong. The rest of the metro people come over; naturally, almost all of the women are too cool to talk to me. I stay for a few more minutes, then at 1215, I head out to take the 45 minute walk to the el stop. By the time I get to howard, its closed. I have to take the bus. I talk to a random guy who does food service at the plex, john, for an hour. I get back, bk is packed, so rather then risk being seen in my uniform, went home.

Only good point of the night: got to listen to the new Punpkins album, Judas O. Word.

There's battle scars on my face and my arms
but she kisses me anyway

Quick (completely uninformed) review of Orbital: Organized walls of noise; layers and layers of different sounds and beats; at times headache inducing, at times quite fascinating. Phil and Paul had a ton of fun on stage, and really connected with the audience. Anything that gives me an excuse to wear pink sunglasses at night gets mad props from me.

I am going to orbital tonight. like most shows I've been going to recently, I know very little about them, have only heard a few of their songs, and am not paying to get in. I am lame. I haven't seen a band I actually owned a record by since I saw Weezer. But I am very super thrilled, because Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are coming in April. If I'm not on break, that show will be mine. How such sexy vocalizations could come out of a man so ugly is a source of endless amusement on my behalf.

My boy ditched me tonight to have an affair with homework. And some frat thing. I don't quite know--the details were rather hazy. I'm quite suspicious.

I am going to a party hosted by the metro staff tomorrow. This means free alcohol and food to all those interested in attending. The only catch is you have to wear a costume. So this immediatly discounts all of my friends and enemies in tech.

Sugar on the asphalt

Am I more tired than hungry, or more hungry than tired? This question poses a serious quandary in my decision to remain in my room and go to bed, or to go get a granola bar from a vending machine that is five flights of stairs away.

Also, I need to come up with the best halloween costume ever.

I am now unhappy! Yes! This is a good thing. And I will tell you why.

The last few months, ever since April, actually, I have been blissfully happy. I woke up every day with the knowledge that my life was supremely blessed. And don't get me wrong, that was all fabulous. Being happy is great, and I hope to return to that state. But not right now. When one's life is without fault, sadly, there is nothing to write or vent about. As an artist, of course, this is terrible. I can whip up fabulous poems when happy, poetry's a forte, but unfortunatly, fiction takes a more unstable state of mind to craft. Wait a minute, was that a dangling particple? I guess it should be crafting fiction takes a more unstable sort of mind. Yes, that sounds right. Now, to continue.


I am enrolled in fiction 207 this year. How I do in this class, and the body of work I produce in it, determines if I can make it into the fiction section of the Writing Program, which is incredibly competitive. Hence, I needed (and have successfully completed) a process to tear down my inner joy. Through a combination of too little sleep, starvation, overwork, and reflection upon relationships, both past and current, I have made myself mildly depressed and unhappy. And you want to hear the really great part? I'm already coming up with 10 times the story ideas I had when happy.

So, there we are. I'm just like everybody else again. The trick is not backsliding and becoming content again.

Anthrax was a threat back in the early 80's, but the lead singers been doing all kinds of Top 100 metal artists of all time stuff and a million behind the music's. I don't think Anthrax poses a real problem to Americans now....wiat, what kind of Anthrax were you talking about?

You know, I like having dinner with small groups of republicans. Especially when there is one irrational person at the table whom we can all secretly make fun of.

I gossip about people. In that sense, I suppose I am a terrible person. But on the other hand, if you ask, I will have no problem retelling to your face everything I have said behind your back. Human beings, after all, need to be consistant.

I would talk more, but I haven't slept in 35 hours. so lets kick it, shall we?

problem fixed.