short people and gay guys (and drunk jasons to boot)
2002-01-19 - 3:37 a.m.
Ate today. This past week seemed to be a test of my addictions, weeding the strong from the...not so strong. I discovered that (relatively speaking) I'm not addicted to eating*, sleeping, or being online. I'm truely addicted to coke, and writing, and being a nice guy in general.
Walmart fun: this is for mental storage. I layed down on one of those rolly things that people use under cars, and laid a tire-iron on my chest like a cross. Rolled to the end of the isle, hummed taps, and then did the same on the other side. Repeat once.
For the neologist in each and every person: Fud. Short version of the catch-couplet "fuCin' dud", representing that which is false, broken, or never worked, in cohort with a general annoyance that the 'that' in question has such qualities as listed. Not to be confuzzled with the term Stud, a short for the catch-couplet "stupid dud".
Woke up on Monday to get down to Boston. the car couldn't be see through the snow. Started shoveling a driveway of two-foot piles at four in the morning so that father and I could get to Bangor at 8. It's odd, how two seperate men can't do the job of two together, becasue there's a sort of competition between even the best of friends that keeps them going. I can shovel more than you, faster, with a heavier shovel, and I stay out as long as you can. Male pride...the butting of heads that keeps the world turning.
I wonder, if humans had metal heads, how many edges they would have. It has been said that the tongue is a tripple-edged sword, and the nose would only really be one, the jawline, the ears, and maybe the eyebrow-bump, just under the hair.
When I woke up yesterday, I tought that it might be My Day. See, I have for a long time held a theory that everyone on the planet should get one day of their life just to them. A day wherein everything goes as they wished (if one happens to be a bad wisher, I suppose the day just blows away all expections and surprises you with goodness) and things just sort of work out. An anti-goblin, if you will. It may be unlikely for you to really understand this concept, unless you come from a large family or happen to be extremely prone**, but in that case, you could just imagine a bestest-bestest day. The temperature was down near 50F, and the breeze was swirling, the way it does just before something important is going to happen...I was listening for a lower-octive tune to start falling from the sky when I stepped outside. There was something strange about the clouds, but after asking myself about them the next morning, I discovered that I couldn't recollect what it was that made them strange. Somehow, it was a rush and a calm at the same time, so that if chicken little were to run up to you and tell you the sky were falling, it would be entirely believeable, and yet you find the idea comforting, instead of running around like a head with your chicken cut off. After all, what could be harmful about letting the clouds get close enough to hug ya? But the day was fairly unlucky from then on, as the bookstore needed to see my ID (which I left at home) to allow me to buy books, and I got to the school post office just as it closed, so I couldn't mail Sarah her calculator.Trying to find out were all my classes were without a schedual, because (again) I couldn't get signed up for classes or get a schedual without an ID. It ended as another typical day with a typical few hours of sleep to follow. This morning, as I was in the shower, the light fixture fell apart and dropped squarely on my head...and then there are days that just start out typical.
"Some people will tell you to 'followyour dreams'. But it's hard to find out which way a dream has gone, once you're awake. I say, follow your head, because It's usually pointing in the right direction...forward." -Nemo
Requirements for the perfect girl, continued. Must be able to eat with chopsticks, even if not in the propper manner...making faces with or traveling with chopsticks is a plus. Taking absurdity and fun seriously is a big plus. But more importantly, the perfect girl is required not to fulfill all of my requirements.
Step-mother and I got into an argument about the definitions of the terms 'use' and 'have', in reference to asking things of someone else. She things that to use something is to borrow it, and to have something is to own it. Her terms refer to constructive custody, the only difference between the two being the length of time the object is owned (temporary or permanent). My thoughts on these words are much closer to actual custody. To use is to incorporate it in preforming a function (for which it may or may not be intended) and to have is to hold in hand. In my brain, there is no ownership in the constructive sense, becasue I just can't grasp the concept of owning something. How can a dog belong to one person, and that person alone? How can a chunk of dirt be owned, and why do we think that mann has the Right to own without allowing ourselves to be owned? Basically, the argument started because she gets mad when I think I'm using something of hers, and she thinks that I have it without permission.
Brighton, the dark side of the spoon. My motherboard was (questionably) dead when I got back from vacation, and Don went the extra length to give me a ride to Brighton MA for a new one. Evidently, the town has a pretty high rate of theft and other criminal activity...we weren't even in town for five minutes when I spotted the first guy, clutching something to his chest and running. Later, when we stopped for gas, a family of three appeared to be doing the same, and I couldn't help but try to roll on the floor and laugh, even while I was buckled in. Oddly enough, I fergetted to mention this to Don, because I was busy being amazed with peices of old sailing vessels in his back seat.
Before my vacation had ended, Sister and I drove to Bangor, where she tried to have me killed. Upon pulling out of McDonald's, she went onto the wrong side of the island on the Hogan road, and we somehow ended up perpendicular and in both lanes, just as the light turned green...blah blah. Let's face it, you don't really care how my day was. You'd rather not bother yourself with how many times I wipe my ass in the bathroom on wednesdays (as opposed to thursdays) and who said what about whom doing whatever with whoever. I sympathise with you, reader, because I'm sort of a stranger to myself, and far be it from cricket to Need to poke into the affairs of another person's day, for entertainment's sake. Let's face it, I could be bullshyting this whole life, and really be a midwife in Argentina. Fortunately, there are things that can't be faked, and creative ideas are at the top of the list. It is to the idea of ideas I toast to, the thought of thoughts that I rededicate this diary, independant of humdrumosity and the everyday shyt that everyone thinks happens only to them. All that remains is to coax my dorm-room ceiling into being more talkative/argumentative.
*I shouldn't lead the reader on to believe either that I was genuinely hungry or starving...I ate a couple small bags of chips and Don bought me a donought while we were out motherboard-shopping...and the coke seemed to satisfy my stomach just as well as cafeteria food anyhow.
**I hesitate to say 'accident prone' here, because I'm sure that the majority of prones are not completely accidents.
