Holy fucking fuck.

Every single one of the Democratic candidates just lost my vote.

At the last debate (I think. These videos aren't very well labeled), the second to last question was "Senator Obama, what's your favorite Bible verse?" (His response: Sermon on the Mount.) The question was then posed to all of the other candidates, and none of them said, "Uh... none of your fucking business. Religion and politics should be as far apart as possible. Why would you ask that?"

I'm writing in Howard Dean.

Cathartic?

It's been a week. What a fucking week.

Shrooming with Scott and Frank last night. The wrong week for it, apparently. Whoa.

They had a great time, which was awesome. Frank was fucking spastic. Bouncing off the walls. Everything was pissing him off. But not in an angry way or anything. He'd just start swearing at something for ten seconds, then stop for a couple of minutes. Scott, on the other hand, was really mellow for most of the evening. He was enraptured by a tree near the front doors of Smith.

I, however, was not having quite as good a time. I don't feel like I had a bad time, in my head, but everyone keeps telling me I was practically catatonic. I remember not being able to deal with practically anything. I had problems coping with my computer. I was very... stuck in my head. Trapped in my head. I don't really like being trapped in my head. Because the things in my head are all puzzles. They have to be taken apart. They have to be solved.

I have no idea how to relinquish control of my mind. Scott and Frank were standing up looking at me while I sat on the cold concrete and being as small as possible, and they told me to just let go. But I don't know how. I can't do it. And I came to the realization that much of the time, I do things like marijuana and mushrooms and whatnot to slow down. To stop the constant running tape loop in my mind. To halt the ever-deconstructionist part of my brain. To stop and just feel good for a while without having to worry about anything. And then I realized... that's sort of what heroin does. Especially if you overdose on it. You just... stop.

After my bad time had come to a close, I started thinking about my various women problems and realized that I didn't care that much. Is this catharsis?

Anyway. I made it through. I know I was freaking out my friends, cause I kept smiling and saying I'd be fine, and they all seemed pretty convinced that I wasn't. But by now, I know how to ride it out, and that's very useful. I still had a good time, though I may hold off on doing it again for a couple of weeks.

I decided, while on shrooms, that I needed a shower and a shave. That was a whole new thing. Very weird. But I was successful. No cuts or anything. It was pretty excellent, all things considered. The heat of the shower and the water hitting and trailing my skin was incredible. And playing with my naval piercing was a lot of fun. Bwahaha.

This is the first post I'll be putting up with my newly returned to me laptop. I'm at Donkey, presently, listening to music and drinking coffee to keep the chill away. I should buy some apple cider for my room. And some tea. I'll make that happen tomorrow. This is excellent, though. I don't know how I lived without my computer.

One of the things I missed most? Porn.

I was trying to figure out this couple earlier. I'm guessing they were on maybe their fourth outing together. This one was casual, as they were at a coffee shop, playing Othello. He was telling her about one of his exs (for whom he apparently did things he shouldn't have and were, in retrospect, stupid), which is why I peg it around four, because it seems like you'd start getting into real history after you've been out a couple of times and have decided that you like each other. I wasn't really listening to them, they were here and I noticed them as I was switching on my computer. But it intrigued me, as relationships tend to, particularly in their early stages.

Coffee and music are an excellent way to spend the evening. I was going to go to Dance or Die, but this is much better, I think. I love the smell of cold air in the fall, and I love the taste of clove cigarettes.

Everything will be okay.

Pancakes for one

This is something new.

I'm so tired. I'm so exhausted. I'm just so fucking dead. Yet before I've begun caffinating this evening, I'm full of manic energy, the desire to run, jump, scream. I feel dead, utterly dead. And so totally alive.

Really, I should smoke less pot. That's likely the cause of it. Or at least, if I could make myself function the day after smoking. But I am getting my stuff done, on the whole. I just need to be awake for more of the day.

Ugh.

Good news, though! I should be getting my computer back tomorrow. And that will be excellent. Because I misplaced my iPod the other day, and that is a terrible thing to have happened. I'm going to have to get a new one, cause I'm slowly losing my mind without the constant music playing directly into my head.

Soul searching is weird. I want to point out that I'm not nearly as conceited as most of what I'm about to say sounds, it's simply true of me. First, and let's be very clear here, I fucking rock. I'm thoroughly pleased with who I am these days. I'm happy with what I think about thing and the way I feel about things. Which seems like an odd thing to say, because I don't think many people think about the thinks they like, why they like them, and how satisfied they are with their reasoning. And I've taken it a couple of steps farther. I'm constantly deconstructing things. Which is why I never let anything go. I have to know what it means. I feel driven to be able to put everything I see together in the ginormous puzzle of life. I want to assemble people's logic and reasoning like factoring quadratic equations.

I obsess over tiny insignificances because they're all I can control in my life. My iPod is missing, and I can't do anything more than tell the RA. I can, however, dwell constantly on whether or not someone is exactly where they said they'd be at any given time. I can control whether the lights are on in my hallway. I can control many, many tiny, insignificant things that add up to a modicum of sanity.

Wow. That's more than you needed to know.

You know what I was thinking about earlier? I saw this couple, and the dude was talking about how there's a lot of strategy in Clue. More, even, than Monopoly.

I love that stage of a relationship, and I'm so full of bizarre opinions at this point, I'm really looking forward to telling someone about my insane ideas and having her (...or him, I suppose) try to keep up with the absurdity that I spout. And then to switch. I suppose the ideal would be to find someone who builds on the themes and ideas I present. Someone who I can debate over who is more mediocre: Fall Out Boy or U2? Or whatever else. I'm not a dancing monkey, people. I can't just turn on the hilarity. Alright? Glad we're clear on that.

But no. I want to be cute and adorable for the things I say (and how scrambled they tend to be), I want to be admired for the things I do (and believe) and I want to feel that same way for whoever I'm with. I want to adore the next girl I'm with. I want to be enraptured by her, and I want to make her smile just by being around.

Suddenly, I realize that it may seem like I'm really all about having someone. That's not really true. I'm not really looking right now (to be fair, it would be awesome to date Poppy. I'd be very much in favor of that turn of events). I'm just kind of floating on, under the assumption that if I meet someone and we're interested in each other, we'll make that shit happen. But pursuit is dumb, largely.

But I do like being with someone. And I like all the things that come with it. And so I'll probably keep writing about it.

Structure!

Abby hates this song.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. Abby just doesn't like this song because I posted the last stanza in my AOL profile after she and I broke up last year. It wasn't really directed at her, but certainly could have applied.

"The loving is a mess, what happened to all of the feeling?
I thought it was for real; babies, rings and fools kneeling
And words of pledging trust and lifetimes stretching forever
So what went wrong? It was a lie, it crumbled apart.
Ghost figures of past, present, future haunting the heart"
-Belle & Sebastian, "Another Sunny Day"

So now it reminds her of that whole... unpleasantness.

I'm in a really fuzzy headspace right now. A little bit angry, a little bit lost, a little bit severed, a little bit happy. Mostly just fuzzy. Confused.

Certainly, there's a difference between being alone and being lonely.

I'm going to (attempt to) talk to Poppy tonight or tomorrow.

::knock, knock:: "Hey. Hey." ::holds up finger, long silence:: "Sorry. (pause) Look, I really fancy you. I know, you've got a guy back home. Tom, yeah? Well, look. I'm not trying to replace anyone in your life. There are hundreds of reasons why you and I going out or dating or whatever is a bad idea, but I genuinely don't care. You thrill me in heretofore unknown ways, and I want to keep making that happen. But I have no idea what you want."

It won't go anything like that. And it's highly unlikely that I'll use the word "heretofore".

What I want, ultimately, is to lay with her, run my fingers through her hair and kiss her. And just keep doing that for a while. I would be for that.

There's no rhyme or reason to this. It's just... floating in and out. In my head.

One last true thing: When I spend time with the people I love, I hate myself.

A repository for the nonsense in my head

So...

Abby and I called it quits. Officially. Finally. We're just friends now, albeit, friends who might have sex once in a while. And I talked to Poppy for like 20, 30 minutes today. And right now, I'm going to pack a bowl for later and go smoke hookah. Well, right soon.

Abby. I love her, I do. And she loves me. And I think that both of us can love other people better. It works out, in the end. Still, endings are weird, yeah? Always in a funk, a weird haze for a couple of days. I may want to hold off on the psychedelics this weekend. Anyway, here we are. And I feel relieved. Yet I feel severed.

As for Poppy, it's like we're on different fucking planets. I have no idea what to do there. I went to go ask her if she's been avoiding me and we chat for like 25 minutes. So that's... curious. No idea what to do there.

The following things are true:

-I break more laws on the average day than most people will break in their life, yet I've never intentionally harmed another human being (which I believe gives me the moral high ground. Suck it).

-I'm not a particularly good person, but I am usually a spectacularly honest one.

-I hate people who mispronounce "espresso".

-I think about death more than you do. I also enjoy life more.

Now I'm going to do something else.

Shroooom!

Woo! What a fucking night.

Wednesday night (Thursday morning?) I shroomed with a couple of friends. It's always such a sudden decision ("You have boomers? Well, I have money! Give that shit here!") and I always end up doing them that night ("I don't have classes til 11! No worries!").

Downed a full eighth myself, and still am going to need more to get good visuals. Goddammit. Still an incredible night. One of the girls I did them with, Ali, had never done them before. Looking back, it's really funny. Beforehand, she was really nervous and a little freaked, and we talked her down, and as soon as they kicked in, she started asking "why people wouldn't want to feel like this all the time?"

The other thing I love about shrooming is the connectivity you have with whoever else you're with. I always feel closer to the people I do it with, always. Just getting fucked up together and sharing a freaky experience.

I always feel like shadows are shifting and waving when I'm hopped up on psilocybin. And I stared at myself in the mirror for like five minutes. But I came away totally satisfied with myself. Quite frankly, I'm awesome. That's not meant to be conceited, just true.

I realized a couple of things on my voyage this time, aside from how awesome I am. One: I like shrooms because they intensify the gibbering madness in my head and makes it normal, makes it okay, makes it acceptable. The second is that, while I am not addicted to anything, I could live on the streets, surviving from fix to fix, if I had to. I could live like that. I could be okay with that. Which is more than a little frightening.

But it's okay. I've come to terms with it. I've made my peace. And it's time to move on.

Whatever People Say I Am...

Since I am clearly the cultural hub of the universe, discussion today will be of what I did last night. Almost one hundred percent of what I did was illegal, yet the chances that anyone reading this will give a shit are so close to zero as to be unimportant (hope the audience doesn't include my probation officer, then).

Last night, I saw the Arctic Monkeys. And it was sweet.

I borrowed a car to get there, obviously, as the show was in Columbus and I am, alas, stuck in Athens. The reason I don't have a car is primarily the fact that I don't have a license. And the reason I don't have a license is because I'm a dangerous pot-smoker (who never got busted anywhere near a motor vehicle. Hmmm...). So would it be irony that I both drove and toked the whole way to Columbus? I'm not sure.

Now, before we get people mad for my "reckless driving," it's important to realize that most people drive better stoned. There are myriad reasons for this, but one of the best is simply the fact that stoners are in less of a hurry to get places. If I'm high and driving, I'm probably going 55 in the 60 with the stereo at close to max. I like driving anyway, and going a little slower means I'll be driving more *and* I'll get to hear more songs. Also, people drive better when they're smoking because if they get pulled over, they'll be royally fucked. So it's best not to give the cops any reason to tag you.

Anyway, I was driving up to Columbus listening to Of Montreal ("Disconnect the Dots," "Your Magic Is Working," "My British Tour Diary," and "Rapture Rapes the Muses" in particular) until I decided that it would be wise to get psyched up, and thus put on Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not. Which, of course, rocked ("But his bird said it's amazing though, so all that's left/Is the proof that love's not only blind, but deaf"). It really is a great album, though I wish I'd had Favorite Worst Nightmare with me at the time.

Still.

So I got there, blazed a touch more, then rolled out to what was a ridiculously long line (that didn't really work out for some people. I was waaay at the back of the line and managed to get tossed up to right behind that knot of folks at the front, the ones who showed up three hours before the doors opened and latched themselves firmly on the bar). After waiting an additional fifteen minutes after the doors were supposed to open, we filed in.

I proceeded to down a Long Island Iced Tea on an empty stomach (did I eat anything yesterday? Yes. I remember now. There was Wendy's. But that was quite late). Now what to do? I'm a bit drunk and a bit high and nothing is happening until the opening act (which was NOT The Coral, like the posters said. I think the name of the band was "Voxtrot," and they were acceptable).

Anywho, eventually (9:15) the Arctic Monkeys took the stage. Besides the fact that Alex Turner looked like he was even more bored than I've been of late, the show rocked exceptionally hard. There wasn't a lot of variation, they weren't really engaging with the audience, but who gives a shit? We were rocking the fuck out. And I think everyone was satisfied with that arrangement.

They played for almost seventy-five minutes, which was excellent, as there were essentially no breaks and they only have two albums (plus EPs). There was a whole group of British people who kept breaking into song and whatnot before the show. And that was amusing. Oh! And I demoed Rock Band on my way out. Which was cool, but I like the Guitar Hero controller better. (Game companies, please take note:) The guy showing it off missed the point when he told me that Rock Band was "harder than Guitar Hero". I don't care if it's "harder". I simply want it to be "fun".

Then I drove home. And blazed, and rocked out. Honestly, all things considered, one of the best days of my life, if for no other reasons than because I listened to nothing but good music all day, I felt good all day (chemically altered and otherwise), and I had my face rocked off.

Ennui (That Inescapable Feeling)

Ever been too bored to sleep? Too bored to fuck? So bored that even getting high doesn't help?

Cause I have. I am right now, in fact.

The crushing feeling of having nothing to do and the knowledge that everything you do is meaningless. Because that's the flip side of true boredom. Of true ennui. Having that feeling that tells you, yeah, okay, you could be doing something, but there's nothing worth doing, everything worth doing has been done, and you'll never be able to make any difference.

Boredom is a lot like existential angst. But it's a lot more boring. At least when I get angsty, I go for a run or something. I feel compelled, not the opposite.

The insidious creeping death of anything you feeling like doing. That's boredom.

I'd keep going, but I really can't be bothered.

The one I *should* have titled "FUCK"

I want to have Sex.

I was discussing this last night with a friend. That is, my desire to have Sex.

We started by talking about the different kinds of sex, which is a discussion for another day, when I care enough to write about it. For the moment, however, I want to talk about the first time you are intimate with another person (and how much I'm looking forward to that again).

I have a theory, and it is this: the first handful of times you have sex with a person are different than any other time you will ever see that person naked. This is not necessarily a good or a bad thing, and I'm willing to guess it's less true the more people you fuck. But it's still the assumption I'm working with here.

Part of this difference is the simple fact that you are still truly exploring that person's body. To discover and chart new territory, as it were. Tenderly tracing fingers along their skin to redraw the maps in your head. Determining which parts of this new land are more fertile (or bountiful) and if the undergrowth on this new country is thick (seriously. I'm covered in hair. Okay, "covered" is strong. I'm not grotesquely hairy or anything like that. I just have a hairy "chestal section". Oh, and I shave my armpits. It's a comfort thing). It's terribly exciting.

But seriously, isn't that the best? The sweet and gentle trailing as you kiss any and every exposed inch of skin or the feel of the first truly intimate thing you do (this is Third Base and beyond I'm referring to here). It's not great sex, and it really shouldn't be, because you don't know how the other goes. You haven't adapted, so you're working harder than usual, because you want to have a good time, but more importantly, you want them to want to continue to have sex with you (that's key). It's the kind of sex that's already more intense because (theoretically) a massive amount of emotion surrounding it, it's almost electric. And it's only gets more intense, because quite frankly, you're fucking.

It's the kind of sex where, once you've started really going, it's not even possible to grip the other person because you're both covered in sweat, you try to grasp their arm, wrap around them and pull them into you, but you're so slick, slimy, soaked that it barely works at all, and sweat just pours out of you, but it doesn't matter because of the pure kinetic energy of *fucking*. The kind of sex that leaves the bedsheets unusable because they're soaked with sweat (and whatever else). The kind of sex where the only way to get the sweat off isn't even a towel or a shower, no, the only effective way is a fucking squeegee.

That's the kind of Sex I want to have. That stuff hits the spot.

FUCK!

Oi!

To be sure, it's been a while (not that anyone is paying attention). My computer has been busted since shortly after my last post, and I am still without the funds to have it repaired. Granted, I could clearly have been doing this all summer, but I find this method of blogging to be somewhat distasteful. "This method" being that of blogging at the library. I prefer my privacy. But! Somethings should just be expunged, and this is the most effective way to make that happen. Worst case, I'll keep it up here for the time being (shudder).

Unfortunately, I have nothing of any import to say. That is, I have stuff to say, but none of it is important. In my opinion. Politics is important. Even cultural stuff is important (go see Stardust and buy the new Get Set Go. Do it now). My petty bullshit issues aren't. This is something I consider a truism. So bear with me, because women are insane, and I hate everyone.

Now that that's cleared up, let's talk, just a little, about the issues at hand.

I, personally, happen to be a huge Anglophile. Now, I'm not quite at the level I would be at if had disposable income, but as it stands, I adore the British. I find their slang amusing and I adore their comedy and music (This is the extremely short version of my rapt interest in, well, anything that the British Isles have produced).

This principle carries over extremely well into intrapersonal interactions. I have just met a totally beguiling English redhead named Poppy, whom I find "utterly enchanting" (my words when asking her out. Yeah. Fuckin' A). I adore her accent, I adore her hair (seriously, beautiful hair), I adore how ridiculously cute she is. So, as would be the logical thing to do, I asked her out. (It was kind of like this: "Uh, uh, uh... so... uh... I, uh, I, uh, I find you, I mean, I'm totally, I think, I find you utterly enchanting, I think you're, uh, uh, really really cool.......... do you want to do anything ever at any time, like... anything? I mean... we could go for a meal, or we could go for a walk, or we could just sit... anywhere... and... talk about anything..." And she got this big grin and said "yeah," and asked when, and I continued to stumble over "Whenever, soon is good," etc. And we agree that we'd go for a walk the next day. And! As I'm leaving, she actually says (I swear) "I can't wait for it to be tomorrow!") It's like being thirteen all over again.

So, the next day, yeah? We go for a walk. It was late, I mean, we didn't leave until 9:30ish. We talked about British stuff, American stuff, general stuff. We blazed. And we walked. By the time we decided to turn around, we'd probably walked two, two and a half miles. And on the way back, I got on the subject of her (well, she asked if I only liked her because she is English). And my response was a listing of a small handful of the things I find "very attractive" about her (see above). And then she got real quiet. It was that thing that chicks do after you tell them something open and honest, when it gets real awkward and quiet, but there's no reason for it. It's only awkward cause you both like each other and so it's not like you can just laugh it off, but it's stupid that it's awkward cause you just want to grab each other and kiss. But that comes later, cause you haven't figured that out yet. Cause you're stupid. Just like me.

So, as we were approaching the dorm, I asked if we were "going to discuss that awkward thing" and she got really quiet again. Which, to be clear, doesn't actually help anything. Then, however, I got a sign, cause she nudged me in what could only be perceived as a playful way (okay, it could have been perceived in some other way). So I did the only thing I could think to do (all together now). I turned around, extended one arm, pulled her close, and kissed her. And kissed her.

Wow.

To add another to the list of things I love about Poppy, let's say "the way she tastes". And "the way she kisses". So it was extremely gratifying (and a little insulting) when she pulled away and said (in her awesome accent) "You're quite good," in this really surprised tone. And then we kissed again.

So, that was incredible. Awesome. Outstanding. Transcendent. I'll go with that one. We hung out the rest of the night. Kissing. Talking. Until! She tells me that there's a slight complication: she has a guy back home. Disaster! She left. Well, she was leaving and told me that she would probably be back, but first she had to think about it. I was excited that she would likely be back, until I realized (and pointed out) that she wouldn't be able to get to my room to talk to me. And I think that that was the fatal mistake.

The next day, she lets me run my fingers through her hair (squee!) and we hang out a little. I don't talk to her enough. I've barely said anything to her in the handful of days we've known each other. I should rectify that. Anyway, we're splitting up to do other things for a while, and I ask if we can hang out later, which she responds positively to, saying that she likes hanging out with me........ but.......... could we maybe just be friends? She feels guilty, is all. I respond with an extremely unenthusiastic "yes" simply because it is impossible at this point. "Friends". Pah.

What am I to do here, caped crusaders? It's clear Poppy likes me. At least, I'm almost sure that's true. But she feels guilty and wants to keep me at arms' length. The assumption I'm working on here is that she likes me, but she's more secure with Tom, back home. Tom, whom she didn't really bother to mention during any of the handful of times it could very very easily have come up in the conversation ("A friend(Tom) sent me a trophy", "I know about ten guys named Tom back home"). This is understandable, but wrong.

I have never been more excited by a human being as I am by Poppy, nor more attracted. Which makes sense, as poppies are the prime ingredient of opium (and by extension, heroin). What to do?