Today is the first day in ages that I (hopefully) will not have a cigarette. It's a momentous occasion; the last day like it was back in first year, in the height of the quit smoking program with free nicotine patches and whatnot. At the moment, I'm drinking a Bitgurger, chowing down on some white rabbit candy, and, in general, feeling pretty miserable. Admittedly, there's work I could be doing. Unfortunately, I don't feel like doing any of it.

I spent a good four hours today trying to edit the CUSA video - I'm rubbish at editing, but hey, at least I'm learning. I also spent a good hour in lab looking at a zebra finch's brain, trying to poke a metal thing into it to take single cell recordings. Again, this was something I'm totally rubbish at. I guess that makes two learning experiences out of two, then. I've just gotten home, practiced a form or two, gotten the heart pumping and whatnot, and now I suppose it's time to settle down and perhaps do some work.

I think hanging out is my new addiction. I've been doing it all weekend, but I somehow feel like I haven't gotten enough, like I'm still strangely disconnected. I just wish that people weren't so busy on weekdays at this school. Sometimes I feel like I need a couple bad influences to keep me company, or, even better, a couple studious friends who'd actually be bothered to come over and, well, study with me. I think my place is a pretty good study environment, after all.

I suppose, though, that that's enough nonsense for one day. I detect that my journal is getting a little more inane than usual today, so I'd better end it here.

My house makes noises when I'm alone at night. It somehow neglects to make these noises at other times, or perhaps it does, only to be drowned out by the constant hum of my computer, by the incessant ringing of the cellphone.

My house makes noises in the quiet solitary hours asleep on my couch; there's the sound of scurrying feet on the ceiling above, the creaking of the floorboards below, the strange, strangled clicks and groans of the radiator, the intermittent sounds of doors swaying, squeaking on their aged hinges.

My house makes noises that are amplified by the stillness of the silence that falls over it like a blanket when my only companions are the dark, unlit halls, and the slivers of incidental light that fall across them.

On my phone, there are only burnt bridges. On the screen, only unfamiliar names.

I grab my coat, pull the blue ski mask over my face and prepare for the winter.

I'm supposed to be doing work, I'm sure, but, with webmail down, I feel almost like I don't know where to begin. You know those people who are addicted to their email, and have to check their email, like, 3 times before being able to start on anything productive? Yeah, I'm one of those people. Also, those people who can't get round to work if there's even the slightest chance that they could push it, till, say, next millenium? Again, guilty as charged. I figure that, eventually, I'll do some Japanese, call it a day, and then, I don't know, try and find out who's willing to wile the night away with me (I think right now I have plans with a certain scoundrel I haven't seen in a week or so to try and wrangle free drinks at a certain bar, and that most definitely sounds fairly appealing, especially given my slight hangover). The point is, I shouldn't hold my breath expecting myself to get any work done.

I'm contemplating putting an end to this whole maverick, I do what I want, intoxicated, expletive filled lifestyle I'm leading. I figure, like I've said so many times before, I can see the days of thunder dwindling down somewhat. Not that they haven't been having their last hurrah, of course - I've definitely been doing my fair share of boozing and bingeing, slanging and clanging these past few weeks. When I got off my butt (other than the toilet breaks) and prepared to go to sleep in the dark last night, checked my clock and realized that we'd been talking till 5 am in the morning (actually a little past that) I realized that, just perhaps, I was eventually going to have to start slowing things down just a teeny tiny bit. At least, I suppose, I wasn't as wasted as I was a couple fridays before; watching movies and trying to speak in as many languages as possible is a pretty good way to spend a night, I figure. I need more polyglot friends. Provided they're cool. Or hot.

Hmm...need to find a dinner date tonight. With my email down, I am stranded. What will I do?

Dear everyone; my brain is officially fried. I used to think, in my early, more stoned days, that my brain was probably getting more and more fried with every passing day. Now I have concluded that that is exactly what was happening. My brain has officially reached the point, however, where it actually is fried. Yes, it now is a lump of gelatinous poop. Perhaps it's just the 4 (and a half, to be fair) hours of sleep I got last night. Nonetheless, my mind feels like it's swimming between my ears, making a sort of gushy, schlip, schlip sort of sound as it goes. Yeah, that kind of sucks, man. It also hopefully excuses why I'm writing such unintelligible drivel.

To be fair, the large part of my journal is unintelligible drivel. If you're nodding your head, agreeing with this statement, well, fuck you. I know I talk in circles, damnit! It's hard to make a point. At least I don't spend my whole goddamn journal talking about stupid shit like some girl I'm crushing on, or you know, the parties I go to every weekend (ok, sometimes I talk about shit like that) or, err, the number of classes I'm taking (how many? more than you, motherfucker - remember, I'm fucking brilliant) so yeah, what else is there left to do but talk in circles? I think it's an art, talking about the practice of blogging in general. Doubtless, it's a fucking circle jerk, but hey, what else are you supposed to do?

Life of the Mind = Mental Masturbation.

The University of Chicago fucked me in the head.

No, seriously, like, ripped out an eyeball and penetrated me with its throbbing academic phallus.

It hurt like shit.

It still hurts.

Every fucking night.

Like your mom.

Ok, now I'm seriously going to try and go to sleep.

In the reg.

Some days, my life really fucking sucks.

The first signs that my head is exploding: My internet journal at mental age 13

Yesterday I ate so much I thought my stomach was going to explode. It was a really super awesome feeling. In fact, it was so awesome that I went home and passed out. On my couch. Until 7 am this morning. Any day I go home and pass out until 7 am in the morning is a relatively good day. I woke up and swept the floor and oh my goodness it became sooo clean because you know what I swept it twice. It was really awesome and I felt good about myself. I had crispix for breakfast and it was nice, even if I was using that organic milk which is usually pretty ok but sometimes not so awesome because, well, sometimes organic milk is really expensive, on account of the organic cows who have to make it. I bought some apple cider the other day; I've finally discovered the difference between apple juice and cider - in the states, apple cider is NOT alcoholic. This was a big revelation. I mean, sometimes you have to realize that not everything is alcoholic. Yeah, that's right. It isn't.

I had a good shit this morning. Yeah, it was kind of stinky, but you always have kind of turbulent shits after drinking. Which is the point. Since I didn't drink yesterday, I had a nice, smooth shit. Like, it just plopped right out. Which was awesome. It sucks when you sit on the toilet and go, 'oh fuck man, this sucks, prrtttt, prrttt prtttrrtrttt' or some shit like that. Yeah, that really sucks balls. I hate it. But man, when you sit down and get the solid splash splash sounds, now that is truly frickin' awesome. Yeah.

Even though I had a pretty good sleep last night (despite waking up every other hour or so from random noises, such as my roommate moving around every five seconds, or the evil monkey ghosts on my roof), I still fell asleep in Japanese class. My teacher made a joke about that; he said, 'oh look, that guy's falling asleep again' and everyone laughed, so I guess it must have been funny. I didn't get the joke, but maybe that's just because I was so friggin' sleepy. Maybe this is because I haven't been smoking enough cigarettes. Maybe I should start using the patch. The nicotine patch, I mean, except it makes me itchy. I mean, I wonder if I'm going to be able to quit smoking this time. There's always the little voice in the back of my head saying, 'man, you'll never be able to do it, it's not going to work, you suck as a person.' Do you ever get that voice? I mean, sometimes I suppose we all get that voice in our heads, but that can't be something that happens all the time, or we'd all go crazy, right?

So now I'm sitting in the computer lab and smiling at the girl sitting opposite me because she's kind of cute and hey, why not? I'm sure we always do stuff like that. It's nice to smile at pretty people, yeah? You see all these cute people all the time and usually you're just all like, hey, she's kind of cute, but I always wondered what would happen if you just smiled at them all the time instead. Maybe they'd think you were kind of cool and you'd get to know them or something, but then again maybe they'd just think you were crazy, you know what I mean? I mean, maybe they'd think you were a psycho or something and you could never have that, could you? I mean, it would really suck if people thought you were a psycho. Maybe the police would come and put you in prison or something. And maybe in prison you'd get fucked up the ass, which would suck, since I'm not gay. I don't want to be fucked up in the ass. Which makes me wonder, what do gay people do in prison? Do they like being fucked up the ass all the time? Maybe not by the really nasty, fat dudes, but hey, if you were a buff gay dude in prison, wouldn't you, like, just have a sex fest? I'm sure gay guys like the bad boy types, right? I mean, shit, I bet gay guys have much better times in prison than the straight dudes. Maybe they should just make prisons co-ed. I guess that really wouldn't work, though, because then everyone in prison would be having fun times, right? Then nobody would want to come out and we'd all be fucked. Or maybe they would. Who knows.

So what's the point of all of this, you're asking? I really don't know. But then, how do we know anything? We really don't. What's going on? Who are you? Who am I? Fucking A! I'm tired. I need a candy bar. Yeah, that's right, so until later, I mean, yeah. Byeeee!!!!!!!!

So instead of nursing my hangover, I'm directing something for this 24 hour play thing. Eh, I mean, what else was I going to do, considering I had no CUSA show to blame for my patchy academic record and whatnot? I obviously need some form of excuse for my inordinate laziness.

The cocktail party was good last night, meaning that I got really drunken. Some times, I think my life is awesome. Other times, my stomach churns and I really need to take a shit, but instead only can fart a little. As some of you might know, I have a great fear of constipation. Man, do I feel constipated right now. I mean, really constipated. And also kind of gross and farty. Yucky McPoopsicle.

I'm obviously loosing my mind.

I love you when you give me stuff
I love you when you're acting tough
But I love you more when you give me things
Because, hey, you're not that good at acting tough.

I love the way you buy me dinner
Because I guess it makes you thinner
Since you're not stuffing your face
Since you have to pay for me
Yeah, that makes me happy.

I love the way you say you're busy
It's so cool it makes me dizzy
I just give someone else a call
And don't have to hang out with you anymore
Not that I don't love you
But hey, we all need lives.

I love the way I never say
That I love you at all, ever.
Because I'm shy
Yes, that's why
And also because you'd stop giving me stuff
And wanting to see me when you're free
And then where would I be?

I love the way I probably don't really love you.
And how, as I'm writing this about you
Your face merges into the millions of other faces
That this is actually about
And I love how
I probably never loved
Any of these people
Except maybe when they gave me stuff.

So I read a blog I haven't read for a while today, and the person in question wrote a poem. Well, bloody fucking shit, I can write poems too. This one's entitled 'Things Which Piss Me Off'

Ok.

THINGS WHICH PISS ME OFF

I'm really not an angry guy
Sometimes I seem to play at it though
Sometimes I get really mad
But people laugh and shit
It
Yeah, it pisses me off.

I mean, fuckin' A when I'm mad
It's pretty bad
You know?
I'm not just ranting to entertain you
Son of a bitch
Ok, to be honest most of the time I'm not really
All that pissed.
Unless I'm drunk
But that's another kind of pissed entirely.

Some things annoy me
And yeah, that's
Well
Annoying.
Fuck.

But some things, some things
Some things, they really piss me off.
Like hard-core style
I'm not even joking
Fuck you, I'm serious.
Some things make me really mad.
Like Manchester Fucking United.
God I hate them so much
Damn their eyes!
And their balls.
And damn them all those bastards
Especially when they win
4-2
or 2-0
or 6-1
Son of a Gun
And Bitch, for good measure.

People who try to hard,
That's just annoying.
My legs feeling all wobbly and aching for days,
That's just payback for all the bad shit I've been doing to my body.
But man, when people forget appointments with me,
Well, I get pissed.
It's not like I don't do it all the time.
I'm sorry
I'm sometimes an asshole.
But holy fucking shit, sometimes
I really get pissed off.
Like, punch a hole in a cow pissed off.
Like, google search for death and destruction pissed off.
Like, violent thoughts / fist of death / diabolical plans for revenge pissed off.
Like, yeah, seriously pissed.
People sometimes laugh at me.
I'm going to learn how to kick peoples' asses.
Then they won't laugh so much.
Motherfuckers.

The end.