It is Valentine's Day which is almost but not nearly upon us, except that the date of this writeup is on Valentine's Day because of different computer time. This is often when loved ones will buy gifts and accomodate needs of each other when they are together. Tacky couples of questionable sexual ability may get married or propose on this particular day. This is not exactly how one shows original romantic thoughts about each other. It is just very simply tacky. Christmas on the other hand always has Santa and presents for those who believe in Jesus or at least think about him from time to time.

I can be like the wise elder or bearded minister at a church or religion organization's summer camp at this time and begin to tell you the story about how my personal faith in romance and the Hallmark rubber stamp of love was lost in various sands of time.

I was married during a time period in the early 1970s through to the disco era and in fact a time when Chic had a top number one hit. It was in Valentine's Day of this year that I made a gruesome discovery not of the one hit wonder type and that is not a reference to Chic because as a band and not a clothing brand they had more than one number one hit and were popular especially with those who were putting cocaine, a subject like flour but with some different purposes, in their nostrils (the name for the hole in your nose).

It was not long after Christmas I made the gruesome discovery, a holiday in which my former wife, or spouse for those who are also thinking gay marriage is adequate for support of romance, gave me a nice watch and a number of shirts that I could wear to work. At the time of this gruesome occasion I worked in sales of high dollar amount vacuum cleaners on a door to door basis. There are people who think that sales is difficult when all you have to do is maintain good relationships with establishment customers who know you are coming. I present to them the case that making cold calls is much more difficult because what is involved is bothering people at a time which may or may not be their dinner hour. Often people fresh home from church will be the rudest, putting the needs of their family ahead of those of a stranger, unlike what Jesus tells them in The Bible. It is untrue to act in a fashion such as this when you have been to church within 48 hours. There was also a movie with Eddie Murphy that was named this, named meaning "48 hours" and there also was a sequel called Another 48 hours which was not nearly as good and now Nick Nolte has legal problems which may prohibit a third movie in the series at a time when sequels are so popular due to falling stats for imagination in today's world. Nick Nolte also was a starring character in Prince of Tides, in case you were looking for something to rent for a guys night in.

Getting away from myself, I shall return to the original thrust of my Valentine's Day message to you, like the wise elder or bearded chaplain I discussed at an earlier point in this particular writing. I was speaking primarily of my gruesome discovery which involved seeing my wife, whom I trusted with all my valentine's heart, with a man of not so questionable sexual skill, especially with his tongue. He was masterful in his ability and it showed in the facial expressions of my wife, who was quite beautiful when in the throes of pleasure, at least at that time because I am sure she has aged quite a bit and not well due to having too many lovers over a lifetime.

This was not long after a pretty good New Years party at my friend Dale's home, Dale being a pretty heavy churchgoer. I have gone a few times after that but since have grown distant from Dale due to flirtateous periods with his wife, especially within 48 hours of being at church, which is dead wrong. We were friends for damned near twenty years and then that flirting, which sometimes involved close personal physical contact, made us not act so much as friends anymore or visit with each other.

It went on for a while, this affair with my wife and the skilled sexual tactician. I would watch, sometimes only briefly and at other times more intensely. Sometimes it would bore me so I would merely glance at them during their lovemaking that was more passionate than her lovemaking with me, which had lasted one and a half weeks after we tied the knot. I thought perhaps she had lost interest in the personal mingling of bodies in a physically intense way but she apparently was in need of a more skilled sexual partner, especially with the tongue. She also was kissing a check out girl from the supermarket for one afternoon but it never went any further, unless I am unaware, which is very possible in light of the other things I was not aware of during the same time period.

On Valentine's Day I came home from shopping at a lumberyard (this was before Home Depot was popular although there may have been Home Depots at that time but not in our town until some years later) and they were going at it in a physically intense way. I tried to avert my eyes and pretend I had not seen, but because I tripped over his ankle on the way in due to lumber blocking my line of vision, it became improbable that I would be able to continue to act unaware of their physically and now also emotionally intense lovemaking.

We broke off into discussion groups almost immediately after it was clear to them that I was aware of their passionate desire to share bodies at a time when there was no need because of excellent heating in our home and it not being at all drafty because of various items I had bought and used in complimentary construction in order to eliminate the severe problem of winter draftiness. The first discussion group involved my former wife and myself and this discussion group stepped into the kitchen area (more of a kitchenette because our home was not big or grand depending on which you think makes the point better). I took a beer out of the refrigerator because I was both nervous and had dry mouth because of this particular experience I was having in my life, which was unlike any previous experience and many of you know what that is like. I opened it with a bottle opener because it was not a twist off (usually I drink Miller Lite but this was a foreign beer I was trying and I don't want to name it here because that would sound like an endorsement and I did not enjoy the product enough to endorse it without receiving a contract and some money for the trouble).

My wife (at the time, we are divorced now) explained to me that this had been going on for a while, and I made the confession that I had been aware of it for a while but had hidden my discovery from conversations with her (those I had aloud and not just in my head behind her back - and I don't usually talk behind people's back but at this time she was cheating on me so I had the right). She made the rude suggestion that I join them for a threesome but I was appalled by the idea (and slightly tittilated but I don't like to admit that). I moved out but also paid her expenses for living there for more than eight years after the final witnessing experience was completed.

It was on Valentine's Day that we made our confessions regarding having the affair and the witnessing of the affair. I don't know how long it would have gone on if I had not been awkward at that moment and tripped over her skilled lover's ankle. He may not have been as skilled as I suspected (based on what I witnessed during my witnessing) because then he would not have left his ankle in a place where an innocent bystander could trip over it.

I suggest to people that they be good to each other and if they are tired of each other for living together or having passionate lovemakings that they need to go different directions. It is a very special thing to be married unless you are not married to a very special person who doesn't need a different person with a higher level of lovemaking ability than you do. You can practice with a few prostitutes or escort boys before you take the plunge in order to hone your skills which may be a good idea. If you have questionable ability in physical expressions of love in the form of sexual lovemaking, then eventually your partner will want to get either a loose woman from the mall or a handsome stud with forearms that can effortless handle a little up and down push up action during this act. I am aware that there are men who do that due to my witnessing.

Happy Valentine's Day to people who are happy and suitable sexual partners for each other due to having been with whores.

ALOT like shit

I wallop and wander in your voice
A tiny choice made by your fucking neck
O, lord G♥d, when you broke up with me on your deck
That your dad just made, which is quite nice actually, with a place for a barbeque pit
I cried and cried and felt ALOT like shit.
But then a voice inside me said
Something like "Ghhrrgglllglle"
Which I took to mean that one day you'd take me back
And you'd finally give me head in a movie theater like you promised me on Valentine's Day

I have had more than my fair share of romantic dust-ups. I have, in fact, been the clown-faced bop-toy of Love. But no more.

I used to have this problem, see? I liked girls who absolutely hated me. No, wait. I had multiple, somewhat related problems. I liked girls who absolutely despised me, and I had a tendency to fall for women for the shallowest possible reasons.

In junior high and high school, I was the biggest horndog for cheerleaders around. I'd be completely uninterested in a girl until she put on that little miniskirt and started waving those pompoms around. Then she became, like magic, my One True Love. My Holy Grail. My Precioussss.

This was a problem. Aside from my permanent lack of money, I was also miles below everyone else's social class. I didn't even get invited to D&D parties 'cause even the geeks thought I was contemptible. So the cheerleaders, these paragons of short skirts, long legs, bouncy bosoms, and social snobbery, despised me, almost entirely because my affection tended to devalue their own popularity the way a sleazy pool hall would lower property values in a ritzy neighborhood. Of course, the fact that my unwavering devotion swung from one cheerleader to the next might have had something to do with it, too.

It also didn't help that, when I was a kid, I had this aura I gave off -- even at my most cynical and evil-hearted, everyone thought I was a wide-eyed, naive, saintly schoolboy. Quite aside from my astounding unpopularity, just about everyone wanted to pound me into the concrete. Hell, I look at pictures of myself from back then, and I wanna pound myself into the concrete, too. So I guess it wasn't that surprising that other people, including cheerleaders and their boyfriends, treated me so horribly.

I used to wonder what was the matter with me, until I realized that, while other people gave off pheromones to get other people to like them, I was actually emitting anti-pheromones which caused girls to hate me, or at least to see me as a completely unsatisfactory boyfriend. I'm hoping to find a doctor someday who'll help me isolate and patent these anti-pheromones. Something that rare must be valuable, right? Who needs love when you've got millions of dollars earned from your bizarre biochemical physiology?

Things turned around a bit when I got to college. Almost immediately, I discovered that people didn't give a flying fuck what my social status had been in high school. The guys who played football didn't want to kick my ass -- they wanted to play hacky sack and smoke de ganja. The tough guys and rebels didn't want to kick my ass -- they wanted to talk about religion and smoke de ganja. A few of the fratsters acted like they were still in high school, but most of them wanted a ride to the grocery store and a little extra pitch-in money for beer. And to smoke de ganja, of course.

Girls were a lot different in college, too. Yeah, there were cheerleaders, but my fetish seemed, for some reason, to quit working. The cheerleaders in college were athletes first and foremost, selected because they were strong, agile, and willing to work hard, not because they were pretty, popular, or had sex with the cheerleader sponsor. Yes, they were attractive, but they just didn't make my head spin like they had in high school. The two sexiest college cheerleaders I knew were hotter'n a pair of two-dollar pistols, but I'd never, ever seen them wearing their cheerleader outfits, so my feelings for them weren't actually related to cheerleading.

Which is not to say that I'd magically become less shallow. I was still chasing girls with long legs and bouncy bosoms -- my libido had simply unchecked "short skirts" and "social snobbery" from its list of Must-Haves. And yes, my new college-age fixations still hated me, so I suppose all remained right in the universe.

There were the two interchangeable sorority girls with long legs and bouncy bosoms; the bespectacled brunette library genius with long legs and bouncy bosoms; the chain-smoking, leather-clad bad girl with long legs and bouncy bosoms; the regal, opera-singing redhead with long legs and bouncy bosoms; the Mexican restaurant waitress with long legs and bouncy bosoms; the punk-as-shit ass-kicker with long legs and bouncy bosoms; the intellectually uptight blonde with long legs and bouncy bosoms; and many, many more (Yes, my college was, at the time, singularly blessed with girls with long legs and bouncy bosoms -- I've been back more recently, and it just ain't the same). I chased after all of them with wild, unchecked enthusiasm, and they all hated me with the intensity of exploding suns.

That hasn't changed. I don't think it'll ever change. It used to bother me, but it doesn't anymore. I used to be the T-ball to Love's four-year-old ritalin-addled toddler, but no more. I've made peace with who I am.

But still, thank god for hookers. this is the day after classes started.

I decided to code an online game of pente with user-alterable rules to support all the variations that gave birth to it (Gomoku, Renju, Ninuki-Renju) and that it gave birth to (Keryo-Pente). In the process, I learned how to play Go. I'm not good at all, of ocurse, seeing as I just learned, but I can teach others and we can recreate the ~13 centuries of strategy and thought that goes into the current Japanese game easily after a few hours, right? Right?

Since catgirlz has some money now, I'll offer her all the icons I made of Catgirl Z to see if she wants any of them.. and then I'll get a new default of my own... ..I have 15 weeks to spend what I believe to be almost $600 in meal points. That's over $5 a day, which I don't eat.'s actually $65 a week now that I check, which is nearly $10 a day.

Um. I'm not sleeping right now and I should be because I have class in like 9 and a half hours. TIS gave me the wrong Physics book, so I need to return it and get a different one.. The Japanese drill I'm in will be impossible. I know I'm not supposed to do well in it - that's why it's drill - but it's all speaking, it seems, or at least the first was. Not only speaking, but hard questions like a jikoushoukai (I never know what to put in one) and a what did you do over the summer (I slept and that was about it).. combine with the fact that the teacher is supposed to be teaching new things, but not in English (I said that all I did was sleep and she said something in a different form and I had no idea what she said.. I need to re-learn polite form, too, I guess). And everyone was talking at once and my right ear isn't working so it didn't work out very well and in the end I almost broke down. I am very glad that my other classes do not seem nearly as stress-inducing as that drill will be.

I probably know most of the 90 kanji I'm supposed to know for my Japanese class, but it seems a lot of them are useful but not easy ones, so stuff I don't know.. ..a good thing: there is a review section at the beginning of the level 2 text. A bad thing: the older kanji apparently does not have furigana readings in the rest of the text, so learning to speak will continue to be difficult. My room is a very mess. I always wake up before my alarm goes off. Always always. So today I set my alarm for a half hour before class and woke up an hour before the alarm.

So there's this guy at a racetrack who decides an investment in scientific research will give him better odds and therefore a larger payoff, so he decides to hire three scientists to help him choose a horse: a biologist, a chemist, and a physicist. The first race's odds are posted and so he sends the biologist to check out the horses. The biologist takes muscle measurements and checks pedigrees and eventually chooses a horse. The man places a bet and loses. The next race, he sends off the chemist, who takes blood samples and measures different hormonal and chemical levels in each horse, eventually choosing one. The man places a bet and loses. Finally, he sends the physicist, who takes out his lab manual, looks over the horses, does some quick calculation, and chooses a horse. The man places a bet - and wins. Afterwards, he asks the physicist, "How did you choose a horse? What was it that made you right when the other two were wrong?" The physicist replies, "Well, first you assume that a horse is a sphere..."

~I support the new Nekketsu Kouha Kunio-kun | One fan remembers6 fans remember~

Definitions of love abound, ranging from a passionate all encompassing feeling to friendship or merely fondness for an inanimate object. A random search on Google will turn up 120 million hits for the word love. The Greeks used 3 words to describe the different types of love; philos, agape and eros. Romantic love or eros can not really be adequately described, only experienced. To my husband and all lovers today I dedicate this Valentine

It will soon be 20 years since we pledged our troth on that beautiful spring morning. I think I was more enthralled with the idea of marriage itself than what it really meant. Little girl fantasies of dream houses inhabited by Barbie and Ken assured me that I would find my perfect mate. Never mind that my own family was far from ideal. I was innocent and carefree. I was young.

True love

What did that mean really? As I searched for fireworks, I found friendship and sex, companionship and passion, but not love.

As a teenager I loved intensely and fervently but not with true understanding. The years passed and I thought I had finally found the one, but alas I was not his true love.

Then finally it happened. You wooed and won my heart. How could I not fall for someone so witty and funny and persistent! Guys, no matter what they say women like to be courted. If you want the girl find out what is important to her and make it a part of your repertoire.

Once the banns were posted and the words said I found out what real love was:
  • Adjusting to sleeping with a blanket snatcher.
  • Waking up every morning listening to the symphony of your snores and liking it
  • Warming to the idea of (__________) because it was important to you
  • Learning when to charge into battle or to surrender the fight (I'm still working on this one)
  • Acknowledging that when you quietly clean up after me or do the laundry or any of a number of other things it means "I Love You"
  • Realizing you are my best friend as well as my lover
  • Knowing that you will always be there 'cause you meant it when you said "Til death do us part."

The years have brought aches and pains, wrinkles, more than a few gray hairs and an increase in girth but those are only superficial. Together we have raised a wonderful daughter and grown together in a deeper love than I would have imagined. We don't share the same politics, taste in music or need to communicate but somehow we have made it work.

…let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of heaven dance between you.
Love one another but not make a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

- Kahil Gibran, The Prophet


Happy Valentine's Day My Love

Today I'm going to ask my girlfriend to marry me!

Oh what a glorious, glorious day! And she's going to be so happy that I'm doing it on Valentine's day. It is the perfect day to express our love - such a romantic day. I have bought a 24-carat gold engagement ring, and a teddy bear that says "I wuv you". That teddy bear is so cute. I wuv you. She'll love it. She'll wuv it even :) I also bought a dozen roses. Bright red. As bright as our love. I hope she'll say yes.

Yesterday we were arguing about who loves the other more. We were just sitting on the sofa looking into each other's eyes as we often do , and I noticed how perfectly her eyelids shut when she blinks. So I kissed her eyelid and told her how much I love her. She said "I love you more." And that's how the argument started. It was the first argument we ever had. After about 2 minutes of arguing, we called it a tie and made love again. I love her so much!

Before I decided to ask her to marry me I made a list of things I love about her. At some stage I decided that I would stop if I reached 500 things. But of course I couldn't. I did make myself stop at 600, though. I won't write it all here, but here are the first 10:

  1. I love the way your hair smells first thing in the morning.
  2. I love the dimples in your cheeks when you smile.
  3. I love the lines in your forehead when you pretend to frown at me.
  4. I love the way you pronounce your 'R's.
  5. I love how you warm my nose when I'm cold.
  6. I love the way your bellybutton seems to be an endless vortex.
  7. I love how you know exactly where the itch is in my back.
  8. I love how you paint your fingernails a different colour every week.
  9. I love that you match your toenails to your fingernails.
  10. I love how sometimes your eyeglasses aren't straight, and I have to straighten them for you.
  11. I love the way you lie down on my side, to warm up the bed for me.
I know I said 10, but I couldn't help myself :)

Oh glorious glorious day!

I hear her coming now. I'm going to ask her to marry me!

update: the bitch said no. who the fuck does she think she is? I told her I was only joking (which of course I was). it was all just a joke. i wanted to ask her to marry me and then dump her to watch the stupid look on her face. ha ha. who's sorry now, bitch? who's sorry now?
I loved Marjorie with every fibre of my being. She was my first true love. And she loved me back, oh my word did she love me back. I mean, she didn't say anything, but I knew. I could see it in her eyes.

Your first one is always the hardest to get over. Luckily, I never had to get over Marjorie. She will love me forever. She didn't say that, not in those words, but sometimes, you can just tell. When I looked into her eyes, I knew. And that was good enough for me.

I bought her a puppy, once. It died the same day, before I even got a chance to give it to her. So I had it stuffed, and gave it to her anyway. She cried a bit, but I think they were tears of joy. Sometimes the joy was so intense for her, she couldn't bear to look at little Snuffy. I'd find him stuffed into an old suitcase, or in the attic. One time she even threw him out, left him in the bin. Joy can be hard, sometimes, harder than misery.

We didn't live together, me and Marjorie, not at first. She was old fashioned like that, wouldn't even let me into her house. She was so religious, one time she even called the police and had me arrested, so that I wouldn't come into the house and break the sanctity of her womanhood. Even got a restraining order, just in case. She loved me SO MUCH, she was prepared to go through all that, so that I wouldn't be stained by my own sin. But that was Marjorie for you. Always caring. Always loving.

We had our ups and downs, like every other couple. But they just made us stronger. I remember after one argument - can't even remember what it was about - where she was screaming and screaming at me to leave her alone, and I was like "Marjorie, if you're all alone, who will protect you?" That's why I had the knife. For her protection. She had to be kept safe, I mean, there's wackos out there, you know?

But we're over such petty troubles now. Me and Marjorie will be together forever. My current girlfriend doesn't know anything, of course, she wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand that my love for Marjorie is pure, virginal, holy. I've told her that I keep all my photo equipment in that room, which is why she must never, ever go in there, in case she ruins the chemicals and negatives by accident. The door is triple locked, for safety. I always said I would keep Marjorie safe. And now I am.

I have to go in when Jo is asleep. I wait, making sure that she is fast asleep, then I chloroform her to make sure she won't wake up and disturb me. I pad downstairs, and unlock Marjorie's room. I go in, kiss her gently on her bony forehead, and bask in her love.

The years have not been kind to Marjorie, but for me, appearances mean nothing, not when you have the kind of love that me and Marjorie have. I've had to put broken pieces of mirror into her eye sockets - I light a candle, and make it flicker, the reflected light from the flame dances around and makes it look like her eyes are twinkling at me. I get out the leftovers from yesterday's dinner, take my clothes off, cover myself in The Ointment, and express my love for Marjorie. She doesn't need to do anything back, I wouldn't ask that of her. But I know that she loves me, just as much as I love her.

I can see it in her eyes.

When I was a mere toddler, barely out of diapers, my parents had taken a pilgrimage to Haifa, Israel, the Holy Land. Baha'is are enjoined to undertake at least one such pilgrimage, if they are able, before they die. It's a mystical thing, I think, and kinda understandable, but weird. The only way a Baha'i is allowed to undertake this pilgrimage, however, is by invitation only- the candidate Baha'i must submit an application to the World Center in Haifa, then the World Center makes its approval (I mean, why wouldn't it, if said Baha'i is in good standing with the larger Baha'i community?) and then a date is set.

Mom and Dad got their approval in early 1976, just after my sister had been born. They left me and my older brother behind, in the care of loving friends and family, while they took this journey with my baby sister. There are many fantastic things to see while on pilgrimage, things of historical and religious significance. One such sight is the Tomb of the Bab. It is said that if an earnest prayer is offered at the Tomb, it will be answered with the grace of God. This is not a wishing-well kinda thing. This is prayer, where the person's motivations are selfless.

Dad's prayer was for his children, that they would all find the ones for them, their mates, and marry.

My older brother got married in 1994 to a terrific woman, Dani. Together they have had 3 children- 2 girls and a boy.

My little sister got married in 2000. She and her husband have recently had their first child, a baby girl.

My younger brother is still in his teens, so the jury's still out on that count. But I think he's developing the adequate social skills to achieve such a high honor as matrimony to a special woman some day.

I, nearing the age of thirty-one with no girlfriend in sight and no real prospects surfacing, have never been married. Doesn't look like I ever will be, either. And if I ever do, it'll be rather pointless as I would like to also procreate.

It had come to light, back when I was fifteen years old, that my mother (biological) had had an affair- I am the result of said affair. I am not my dad's son. Well, I am, but only by virtue of the fact that he raised me. I am, however, 100% my FATHER'S son- oh, Lord, am I.

All signs indicate that the God of Abraham, my particular diety-flavor, is of the patriarchal variety. Sons of the Father and all that jazz.

I have half a mind to call my dad up and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that:

1) His prayer has been answered resoundingly.
2) God has a nasty sense of humor.
3) I still believe in God, but dammit, why does blood have to be so damn thick?
4) Y'know, he could have encouraged his wife at the time (my biological mother) to offer up a similar prayer. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.


It’s not so much that I love her, it’s that she’s my everything. Every fiber of her being I crave for with every ounce of existence. She is my everything.

I worry about her. Losing her would be the end. Without my everything, I would have nothing. When she drives a little fast, I cry. When she takes that curve at 40 when it says 35 I tense up and pray to every God I’ve ever heard of that she doesn’t lose control, fall into the ditch, and leave a charred corpse to fill the casket. When she runs down the stairs I know that one false step would result in a head-over-heels tumble of despair. I would watch and scream and patch the wounds, as quickly as possible her body even in death must be perfect. When she goes off to work, to guard those evil men in their nine-by-nine cells of imprisonment, I too am imprisoned in a state of worry and panic. I can only rock in the fetal position until I see her safe and sound again. Those bastards will never take her. She is my gun-toting honey. She is my everything.

I miss her. Not just her smile and laugh and long knot-filled hair and her fake gold tooth, I miss her being. I miss the way she burns my toast and I eat it anyway. I miss the splashes of her she leaves on the toilet seat because she refuses to put the seat down. She’s one stubborn lover. I miss her yelling for me to “get the FUCK OUT!” when I snack on Cheetos and stare at her sleeping… for hours. I miss the way she never lies and really does call the cops every time I have to break in because she still hasn’t given me a key. Damn my baby is one honest sugar. She’s my everything.

I still miss her to this day and worry about her. She doesn’t come by my cell like she used to. I still massage the bruise she gave me last month. I know she’ll be back. This new guard woman doesn’t give me the proper beatings like she did. She needs me. She’s my everything.

You people do get jokes, right?

On Valentine's Day, I found myself without a significant other, but that was okay, and this daylog isn't about that.

I cloistered myself in the campus center and worked on homework for three hours so I wouldn't have the Internet to distract me from getting any work done, but this daylog certainly isn't about that. I didn't even want to do that damn homework, you sure don't want to hear about it.

The Macalester Gaming Society threw its monthly techno/industrial/rock/funk/metal/whatever the fuck our talented and crazy DJs want to play quote-unquote "gamer dance," and that's what this daylog is about, mostly.

The audio system was shot. Whoever had been in there before us had apparently done something terrible to it and it hadn't been fixed. My esteemed roommate, who was one of our three DJs and also in charge of setup, had to borrow people's own personal musical instrument amplifiers to pipe the sound to the speakers. Even then, he blew out my guitar amp (although this daylog isn't about that) and in the end, the entire dance sounded like it had been run through a distortion pedal. Oh, that sound. There was nothing anyone could have done without advance warning, but it was crippling. Many of the regulars sat in the back and, as far as I can tell, grumbled about the sound the whole time; although I'm probably being unfair to them, I have to say that they didn't do much for the vibe.

As much as real honest-to-God vanity on my part frightens me, this daylog is, in the end, about me. I knew that my roommate had poured a significant portion of his heart and soul into this dance, as he does for each and every one of them. He had said to me earlier in the day, "I really, really hope the dance today goes well," and I went to the dance and heard kkkhkhknksksknkkhksk and sat in the back for a while listening to people who ordinarily would have been the most vivacious dancers complain about the sound.

Let me mention my history concerning dancing. Sometime in high school I realized that dancing made me acutely uncomfortable, so much so that a dancing-oriented situation made me sick to my stomach at a party at one point. For a while, I was all right with this. Dancing just wasn't my thing.

I first started to become uneasy about this state of affairs when I came to college with my then girlfriend and she discovered, via the aforementioned gamer dances, that she loved dancing. I went to a couple of them, felt really awkward, and left, and because I had always looked up to my girlfriend (perhaps one of many major reasons we're not together anymore is that I always felt that in some way she was better than me, but let's not go into that), I began to feel that maybe my aversion to dancing was not just an inconvenience but a reflection on some fundamental aspect of my character. This was not a thought that comforted me in my moments of self-reflection during my first couple years of college.

That relationship ended a couple months into my sophomore year and in the throes of self-pity or something I wrote an impassioned and rather childish diatribe against dancing in my web journal. (A web journal! How teenage and angsty! Yeah, shut the fuck up.) As I recall, it was more about how uncomfortable dancing made me than about dancing itself, or about the people who did it, but nevertheless I think it bothered a lot of people that I felt that way. Part of my point, I think, was that it bothered me too.

Later that year, with nothing to prove, I went to a gamer dance and sat in the sidelines watching people dance and feeling increasingly conflicted until finally I said "fuck it" and started to, well, sort of dance. I mean, I didn't know how to dance, of course, so I have to confess that my style was largely Dance Dance Revolution-inspired. And I didn't stretch, so I was hella sore the next day. But the point is that I danced, and I had a good time, and it was like a wall had been torn down in my mind.

Dancing still isn't my favorite thing. I don't go to clubs. I don't, in fact, even go to dances that aren't populated mostly by my friends. But now I know that someday maybe I will, and moreover I might even enjoy it. At least I won't throw up. I mean, I probably won't.

Back to the present, I guess there's not much to tell without seeming overly self-congratulatory, but I am proud of myself, dammit, and I've wanted to put fingers to keyboard again on the matter of my aversion to dancing for a long time. By the end of Valentine's Night, I had taken a flying leap onto one of my friends, danced like a monkey and a robot and some kind of squid or something (not at the same time), slapped at least one of my male friends' asses (if you knew how much ass-slapping I suffered at the hands of said friends, you would know how justified it was), and bumped butts with one of them after he shouted "ASS TO ASS!" in the middle of a song.

It was a hell of a time, and overall the dance went over really well. I don't know that I would have gotten away with that kind of shit at any other dance. And, after the fact that the sets were excellent, I like to believe that my antics played a part in the positive vibe that the dance had in spite of the sound quality.

As is traditional at gamer dances, each of the DJs chose one dancer whose dancing they liked during their set and awarded them a copy of their set; they also collectively chose one person as "Best of Show" who would receive a copy of all three sets. That night, I was "best of show" for the first time. That I was awarded the prize was not as valuable to me as the fact that I felt I had earned it. My roommate called it the "Life Is Good" prize due to my exuberance and the salmon sweatshirt I sometimes wear with that phrase on it; I hope some of my other nodes here indicate that he could not have paid me a higher compliment.

I remember feeling the toilet rim like a cold kiss pressed against my face. The smell crawls up my nose, and my stomach wraps itself around my spine. Most of a bottle of cheap champagne wants to make its way out.
I wrap my arms around my porcelain god and pray.

Happy twenty-first birthday, Jen.

I hadn't planned to spend my evening locked in a tender embrace with my toilet. I swear.

My morning started off with a message from my ex.
An hour or so of talking to him, and I forgot my resolution to spend the day sober.
He never mentioned the fact that today would have been our anniversary.

Erika and Hilary take me out to the Hoot Owl, the only real bar in town. I'm greeted at the door by a drunken round of "Happy birthday!" and a bottle of booze.
I down it all in about three hours.

I remember staggering back to my room after trying to choke down part of a pizza roll Erika had made me eat. It's the first solid food I've had in about 16 hours. I have a vague feeling I'm going to regret that.

I inch my way over to my room, so very glad I left the door unlocked. My clothes fly off as soon as the door shuts.
It's too hot in here.

My meds are waiting for me, somewhere on the disaster area that is my desk. I know I should take them when the first IM comes. A friend, wishing me a happy birthday. My fingers fumble at the keyboard.
My head throbs as I watch the screen. I race out of my room half-dressed as the room starts to spin.


I wake up the next morning naked. My meds are on my desk, an accusation staring me in the face. Isn't it wonderful to be a legal adult?

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