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Hello. I'd like to say that I've been making a solid contribution to the world while getting a blowjob and drinking martinis, but, well, no... I've done absolutely absolutely nothing productive. Nothing. Zip. Nada. I've entered that strange phase of unemployment where you just give in and become this gigantic slug on a bean bag chair playing Sega and watching Fight Club on DVD.
I haven't even had the strength to type email. My father had to constantly remind me five hundred times to send him my confirmation number so he could get us a kick-ass rate at the Golden Nugget. I mean, I got Chinese blood so the fact that my dad could get us big savings should have been incentive enough to do a bit of typing but... Go figure.
It totally drained me to simply call the Stratosphere and cancel the reservations there.
But at least I came to my senses: NO RICKY MARTIN! Fug dat shit. It's probably more honorable to lose hundreds of dollars in a casino instead. Although there is this Hunchback Of Notre Dame show I'm kinda curious about at the Paris. If anybody happens to have an opinion...
I can't believe how intensely lazy I've been. And my sleep schedule. Yesterday was the absolute worse. I woke up at 10pm, heated up some food, went to the gym and did my squats, came home, puttered around on the Internet, watched a couple videos on MTV, watched the Real World and hated myself for actually getting sucked in, played Dino Crisis on the Playstation, went to Waldenbooks to read the Dino Crisis Strategy Guide in order to figure out how to place those elevator shaft pipes, went to Costco to buy the Me, Myself, And Irene soundtrack because all these groups are covering Steely Dan songs, puttered around Borders, and finally went home and crashed at 7pm.
So here I am. Hopefully I'll get a relatively normal sleep schedule out of this. In the next few minutes I'm planning on having a cigarette and going to Zippy's to fulfill my ensemada(sp?) craving. Then I'll work on the lesbian short story while my food digests, then I'll go to the gym. That's a little productive right? Don't look at me like that, I may as well not apply for jobs until I get back from Vegas right? Right? Just nod your heads.
Tuesday, June 20, 2000, 9:17pm
I've actually been having a lot of fun but since I'm me, I'm gonna bitch about some minor shit.
First, after how many fucking years of going to that stupid school, when I'm simply helping Camel Girl drop off Cock Eyes' transcript application thing, we get a UH parking ticket. And since it was my fault cause I told her to park in front of the old workplace so I could run up to Kuykendall to get those course description things just so I could satisfy my curiosity, I'M the ass who has to pay $15. Do they really take those things seriously? We were only gone for a few fucking minutes! Lemme know if you know, thanks.
It might have been worth $15 though to watch Dell Pickle and Camel Girl have a conversation. I guess people with vulgar potty mouths inevitably bond. I never heard the word "dick" come up so frequently by two people. And Dell never fails to disappoint. He told a hilarious FICTIONAL anecdote about how, allegedly, tall haole chicks pick me up in Vegas casinos. That's a really nasty thing about the slot machine handles though.
Anyway, it's always funny to check out the English Department's booby courses. This semester's weirdo topic: Voodoo in Literature. I might've actually tried it out if I'm still unemployed by the end of summer, but the stupid thing's at nine in the fucking morning.
Then there's bitchfest #2: There's a guy at Waldenbooks Ala Moana who insists on commenting on EVERY goddamn magazine I buy. Isn't that against the rules? I buy an issue of Playboy: "Oh damn, that chick is sooooo hot! I mean, I like chicks that are buff, not too big, you know? Like you know when they lift TOO much and they get TOO big. Ho, I especially like the hapa ones..." Okay, now obviously by some of the shit I write in here, I'm not a prude or something, by I just don't like discussing my sexual interests with total strangers in public. That fucker's just asking for a sexual harassment suit. And for the record, I'm honestly buying Playboy for the fucking articles all right?! I promise, I'd let you know if I was using it to whack off or something.
The scary thing is he doesn't limit himself to girlie mags. He'll go on and on about anything. I'm buying a video game magazine: "Did you try this game yet? It's a little like blah blah blah except the role-playing elements aren't that fully realized and..." Fuck dude, I'm not THAT much of a dork!
I dragged Camel Girl with me to the register when I bought an issue of Los Angeles. I was praying he'd pull something like, "I really like California..." or something, but unfortunately he was silent and Camel Girl just thinks I'm paranoid.
Anyway, spent the day with Camel Girl. We checked out the aquarium. It was quite cool. Got up close and personal with cuttlefish, frogfish, black tip reef sharks and an octopus. Monk seals kick ass.
Hey whattya know? Dell Pickle just paged. Wanna come drink with me and Dell Pickle? Go meet us at Players. Right now! See you there, shoots.
Thursday, June 22, 2000, 12:40pm
I'm growing so fucking old. I spent the whole day hungover. I just really need to go easy on the beer. Even Dell Pickle, who's fucking chronic when it comes to substances, looked at the last mug and went, "If I finish that, I'm gonna die." Another bad move: playing darts in that condition. Don't throw sharp objects while drunk. But actually, everyone else around me was pretty bust too so nobody was throwing their darts on the right board. It was suprising how many times I hit the bullseye in my condition. The rub of the game Cricket though, I really must learn to hit other things BESIDES the bullseye.
Yesterday, met someone I shouldn't have met, bought about $60 worth of Vegas literature, and skipped the gym.
Well at least I managed to mail off my resume.
I'll be productive today. No really. Go to the gym, work on the lesbian story, and figure out these fucking bill payments. God, I'm so fricking lazy this month. I really gotta fucking snap out of it already.
Gone In Sixty Seconds was fun, but boneheaded stupid, but I always had a soft spot for Nicholas Cage action movies and Jerry Bruckheimer. Biggest problem: it's no good making a car chase movie if you're gonna edit edit edit so that you can't really tell what's going on throughout the chases.
On the major plus side, there's an incredible song by The Cult called "Painted On My Heart" on the soundtrack. It's a really great rocking song. The lyrics are kinda bonehead, but it still sounds like it belongs in a James Bond movie. It's that cool. They could've kicked Garbage's theme song's ass.
