the hardware store gave me a free hat.

Matt and I saw Weezy again night before last. Same shirt, animosity, etc.
I played some Ms. Pac-Man at Sputnik over a couple beers, but the stick was stuck and as a result I found my little Ms. to be unable to perform her wifely duties of gathering produce and not being eaten by strange European ghosts.


At first things were great.

She'd pick up the strawberries I'd ask for, the cherries too. But I must've done her wrong somewhere along the line because I could see her, plain as day, waiting expectantly for the inevitable ghost onslaught. Unable, perhaps, unwilling to move, she just stayed there, back to the impending holocaust (she's always been a tease) just waiting for me to grab that stick and bring her back home to my loving arms, to teach her once again to love...

And I tried. Needing to hold her again so desperately I grappled with that red stick for what felt like days, but she wouldn't respond.

I had hurt her so deeply, she thought herself better off in the arms of a ghost rather than with me, to her but an apparition, the shell of a once kindred soul.


Someone spilled beer on the machine. That's all I'm saying here. Bitch wouldn't move.

more of a loretta thing

Today finds me as the new owner of The Definitive Collection: Patsy Cline Compact Disc.

I also saw some band from Baltimore sometime mid-afternoon. Then there was pizza. And I also bought a used belt, being the first belt, used or otherwise, that I will have owned in two years.

The whole deal was pretty low key.

Jan tells me this new movie based on DOOM is actually filmed in first-person perspective.

If this is true, it could be huge. DooM, if you are unfamiliar, is likely the best thing to happen to me in my life, more or less.

To me, this news is especially huge, because if it's true, it could easily become the second best thing to happen to me in my life.

And that's cool, because my new belt has been hoggin' that spot for a solid three hours.

bedrock u

Having completed the first half of my second week in college, I've com to belive that this year may be somewhat more difficult than I had previously imagined. Not difficult necessarily in an academic sense, however. In fact, my classes are no more difficult than any that I had taken in high school. The difficulty to which I refer stems from the attitude an general comportment of the rest of the student body.

That's to say the "student" body is dominantly comprised of utter fucking savages. What I encountered on the fifth floor men's room on the south hall is a pretty good example. Now, what bothered me about the whole thing wasn't so much that someone had tried to drop some serious fucking heat in the far urinal, bur more that this person missed the goddamned bowl. If you're going to display the mindblowing amount of sack necessary to shit in a public urinal, especially one in a school, at least try and it right. The whole thing is somewhat like suicide in this respect. If you're going to do it, do it fucking right and don't tell me how tragic it is that you lacked the sack to return your shit to sender.

But this in't about suicide just yet. This is about these people's inabilty to adhere to simple social norms. Simple things really. Things like not giving into community pressure that dictates in your neighborhood it is some manner of rite of passage to get your own goddamned name tattooed on your fucking bicep when you turn sixteen. At the very least they could get in a font not already claimed by the rest of fucking Puerto Rico. The matching beltbuckles are a mistake as well, I know, but they're not a permanent one.

And Ms. Perez, if you happen to be prominantly displaying both, don't cop a fucking tude and say "Shit you don't know me" if I ask you where the library is, because, infact, I know more about you based on the combination of your sweet 'hood tat, your belt, and your Boost Mobile phone hanging from that belt than you will likely know about anything.

Judgin by the student body and the unparalelled ambience of the third floor terrace, elegeantly provided by the barbed wire and indomitable smell of what seems to be airplane glue and gasoline, an outside observer might easily mistake my school for a UN established state university in the Sudan.

But shit's tight. We cool.

of parties and the day since

Friday night saw the christening of our new place, and the hull was well slathered in suds, friends. What was originally going to be a Friday night affair quickly became, once again, a Friday night affair, as Jane's suggestion to hold the event on Saturday was soundly and swiftly rejected.

The decision was made after the actual residents of Robofrance 214 came to the conclusion that it was really of no consqeuence to us whether there was a village people party across Taaffe. We called the night, and it beckoned back.

What began as a low-key gathering of a few knuckleheads quickly escalalted into an all out fucking baller-status affair with a guest list including the likes of "White guy dressed as black guy waiting for an ass kicking cause he's doing coke in the hallway and trying to steal my Ketel One dude," "talk-shit in earshot girl," "I'm gonna play these instruments loud and badly cause they're here boy," and of course the ever amicable E-weezy.

E-weezy is kind of like the a-bomb. No one wants him interupting their good times, but he shows up anyway, leaving behind him a wake of skinless burning death and eventual radioactive deformity. And the motherfucker was trying to sell shrubs cold on premises.

Aside from a few huggins come latelies and the eventual police presence, however, the shit was a success. Had some good times and no one got hurt, and made the acquaintance of a few perhaps soon to be knuckleheads.

Next time we choose to pull something like this, you should come, but let'snot let big motherfuckers who sell drugs into the building this time.

gravy train...?

The template is up and running again, and now offers you new features like class, style, and a Slush Puppy machine.