Frustration

It's Halloween, and the keys are missing. They've mysteriously disappeared, much like the pencils. Where could they be? There's a suspicion that the roommate took them; things often seem to work out like that, especially in those frantic moments before leaving. Where are the keys? The walls seem to shrink; the apartment is foreboding when leaving implies having no way of getting back in. A prison of obligation separates the costume from the party. Speaking of which, will they like it? The costume will get called, everyone knows the stories. Everyone. But then, it doesn't matter. Nobody really cares, anyway. Which is the point. Other than the fact that the keys are missing, which is distressing. Between the absence of the keys and the frantic rattle of the keyboard, the frustration is building. It's not as if either is necessary, they both serve as excuses to serve a certain ego, none of which matters, none of which will be remembered, least of all by their sources.

The work is on the table. It could have been done half an hour ago, but instead of productivity, instead fretting over the keys, the keys which had disappeared. Mysteriously, like the wind in Chicago when you expect a high of 70. There's plenty to do, but the suspicion grows every second. Where are they? Where is whatever? Where is the lightbulb? The lightbulb was found yesterday though. The stomach grumbles, like a distant implosion. It seems further, except the acid is building. Eating alone is no fun, but nobody can come in, because there's no way out. It's a double bind. Or a single one, except it's all getting blurred and confusing. There was obviously something more important to do, but that lost itself. Where are the keys? Where are they? They seem like the answer, but they're not. They're just dead pieces of metal. That's all they are; they burn themselves into the paranoia. They manifest in every stray thought. Where the fuck are they? Seriously, where?

Everything folds into another grumble in the stomach. The hunger is almost unbearable. The kitchen beckons, but so do the keys. Were they taken, or did they just disappear? None of this helps at all. Everything implodes, and releases itself. The light at the end of the tunnel is dinner. But the keys are still nowhere to be found.

One Night I Had a Dream.

So there’s this German mafia right, and they all like eating sausages and drinking beer. Because that’s what they do. But they’re all mad efficient, like those German dudes, because that’s what they are, and they have all these enforcers who wear shiny black coats like the SS and stuff, and they’re all bad-ass like, and they get into this gang war with the Hawaiian mafia, right? Because hey, if the Germans have their mafia, why not the Hawaiians, right? So all these guys are, like, fighting and shit, but the Hawaiian mafia is way outnumbered, because all the Native American mafia took a piss or something and flooded Hawaii island, and then the volcano got totally put out and gave lung cancer to the California mafia, because they’re way too cool for ethnicity there, right? And then the Californian mafia gets all pissed off that they have lung cancer, so they pick on The Hawaiian mafia too. So the Hawaiian mafia is between a rock and a hard place, and they hit up the Scandinavian mafia. But then, the Scandinavian mafia all live in the north, and they’re really kind of docile, because the Scandinavians never really recovered their Viking heritage, preferring to bake and do stuff like that, because they were finally getting cold, damnit! And so the Scandinavians cut the Hawaiians a deal, and said that they’d fight those damn German mafiosos. So then the Scandinavians and the Germans are fighting, with the Hawaiians allying with the Scandinavians, and the Native Americans teaming up with the Californians (despite the massive sales of American Spirit cigarettes) to kick everyone’s ass, because, hey, they’re just pissed off all the time. And then they all get in this big ass fight, and everyone decides that, hey, fighting is kind of bullshit, because, damn it, motherfucker, you can get hurt fighting man, I mean, no shit! So then they, uh, decide that man, fighting is actually no fun, and all start selling drugs instead, and everyone lives happily ever after. I mean, seriously, man! The end.

Why do I have so much time?

Oh, that's right, because I'm always wasting it.

I should go to sleep.

But not before a cigarette.

And more goofing off.

For anyone who can read this:

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I just wrote that at a rehearsal and it cracked me up.

It's another lazy saturday following another (relatively) eventful friday. My life seems to be falling into some sort of bizarre pattern. This just reinforces my belief that everything is cyclical, much like a washing machine. Or maybe not. It's just the damn circles, I tell you. It's always those damn circles. They aren't bad, though, I kind of like seeing things coming, but then I think I'd be happy if there were pleasant surprises at every turn as well, which, actually, there are. So I really don't have anything to complain about, except maybe that, unlike a washing machine, my life doesn't come out cleaner at the end of any of these cycles. No, it doesn't get much cleaner at all.

I should work on getting tickets for Boston over thanksgiving. That would be a good idea, I think. But then again, I should do a whole bunch of things. Having to do a whole bunch of things kind of brings out the lazy in me. I get lazy pretty fast.

Now I have to do the dishes.

I've been ridiculously sick for the past couple days. It's not very much fun, at least not to me. Been hacking up a lung or something, and my nose drips like a goddamn waterfall on steroids. This pisses me off. I'm not supposed to get sick; I hardly ever do it. I've been partying like the trooper I am, of course, in between doing ridiculously elaborate stat problem sets. I'm just crazy like that. Woohoo! U of C! Homework party!

I've been trying to get people over to my place for dinner, but everyone seems to bail at the last minute. What, is everyone really so busy that they can't come over and have someone cook for them? I mean, what the fuck? If I don't have more guests soon, I'm going to start feeling hurt and rejected or something. Or I'll just cook something and forget about it. Speaking of eating, my once six-pack has totally turned into a two-pack. I'm now 2-pac Tan. Where my hos at, bitch? Shit, I have to get in shape. Fuck.

Mos Def and Talib were awesome on Sunday. The Cubs beat the Marlins 12-3, and I think I'm jumping on the bandwagon for this season. Somewhere out there, men are playing professional sport, and Arsenal is taking a break for Euro qualifiers anyway, so I figure, well, whatever. Sosa's home run in the first game of the series was pretty sweet, but the Cubs lost 9-8 anyway. I think that's when I finally decided I'd support them. I mean, why the hell not? Granted, I was pretty inebriated while watching the first game, but hey, what other way is there to watch baseball?

And now I'm bored again. Someone leave some love already; the apartment is way too quiet sometimes.

Yesterday I felt mighty productive. I was like a giant productive robot marching around campus. I imagined a giant boom-boom-boom sound in my wake as I strode purposefully around the quads, paying my tuition, registering (and de-registering) for classes, bounding from nouveau-gothic building to nouveau-gothic building as I got my life in order. Boom boom boom! It was a good feeling. Some days, you feel like you need a power suit or something, maybe something with hydraulics in it. That would be cool for being productive in. Hell, it would be cool for doing absolutely nothing in. Extraneous hydraulics sounds awesome, especially if it can make boom boom boom sounds and scare the shit out of those bloody squirrels.

I'm currently sitting in my dorm-apartment, wondering whether I should start cooking dinner. Dinner sounds like it might be fun. My RH bitched us out yesterday because someone apparently smelled smoke in the halls. I didn't smell anything in the dining room, but then, you never know about these crazy halls. Must be the damn ventillation system. Either that or the sneaky rats. Not that I've seen any, but you never know. Rats are sneaky.

It's kind of nice to be back, except that now I actually have work. You can't be a dirty hobo all the time, I guess; it gets you bids at frats which are awesome (thanks for the couch, guys!), but that you're not quite prepared to join straight away. I'm such a dirty hobo; I just want to hang out and drink free beer and stuff. Free beer is awesome. As is free food. Free is one of my favourite words. It should make a boom boom boom sound, then it would be totally super duper awesome. And maybe get some hydraulics.

I haven't written anything in the longest time, have I? Well, now I have. And now I must be productive again. So I relinquish control of the keyboard, put on the apron, and hunt for meat to cook. Maybe the rats ate it, if they exist. Boom. Boom boom boom.