"Go West young Chinaman, times have changed since we blew you people up to forge a railway across this great nation."

I have got to have the most fucked up dreams of anyone I know.

If you were to wake up next to a dead hooker in a hotel room, with no recollection of what happened, who would you call? If you say the police you're a fucking Nancy.
I was hammered and asked this question the other night, and those who I'd call should know who they are, but is it weird that my Mom would be up there? But if any of of you are in this predicament feel free to give me a ring. I'd be on that shit like Harvey Keitel.

So me and my rommates have been pondering a question over the past couple of days:
"How much pot has been smoked in this house, on average, per day, since we moved in?" I asked them. I didn't even know if I could ballpark it. So we thought about it, debated it, and came up with a mutally agreed figure:
8 grams a day. Now this may sound like a lot, so let me explain. Three fairly heavy smokers and all of their respective smoking friends who visit all in one place combined with incredible abundance. You think of all the tridents and 7 inchers and gas masks and bong hits all collectively, I'm surprized it's not more than that. But you have to take into account there are days (though they are few) where we don't smoke, or where we're out.
Wow, 8 grams a day, for almost 5 months. I'd do up the math, but it would probably piss me off beyond repair. It's likely enough to but the three of us through college. But when you close you eyes to go to sleep at night and hallucinate two bongs fighting each other, it all seems worthwhile.

I want a girl I have to change for.

"Love is watching someone die. So who's going to watch you die?"

Monday afternoon I lost one of my best friends. I can think back on every significant memory and phase in my life, and he was right there. Times where I didn't think I could go on any longer, times when I felt defeated, he was there. He's saved my life more time than I can count. And I couldn't save his.
As much despair and pain that I've shared with him, there was elation and excitement. We were such a team. I can remember bright summer days where we'd walk through the woods, exploring. Never knowing what we'd find or what nature would flush out. The smell of July was like a drug, and we were hooked, chasing squirrels and chickadees until the sun crested beneath the horizon. What I'd give for another of those days.
But he was old. He'd been around since my memory existed and he aged triple me. He's been the only one I can remember who's always been there for me, no matter what music I listened to, what clothes I wore, or where home was. I could always count on him to listen, to understand, and to make me feel better in his own special way.
Carrying him into that room was the hardest thing I've ever done. We had our talk, our time to set things right, it really couldn't have went any better. Not many of us have the luxury of going out like that, but it didn't make hearing "He's passed on." any easier. Stroking his back until the last breath heaved in his chest was the least I could do. I remember telling him: "You're so much braver than I give you credit for." back when Alanis was in vogue. I had to be brave for him. He deserved it. But boy I'll miss him.

So given that I recieved an iPod nano for Christmas, I've taken to wearing my headphones at work a lot. This means I can listen to Throwdown at loudest possible volume without worrying if I'm going to offend the next old lady that walks in. This tactic has its pitfalls as well. It seems that when you sarcasticallly say "Close the door, fuckhead." to a customer who forgets to do so, you may think you're muttering it, when in fact you're saying it loud enough for them to hear you. Also, if you have your back to the door, it would appear that it's incredibly easy for a customer to sneak up on you and tap you on the shoulder as you're singing At the Drive In into a mop handle.

I guess since this place hasn't been visited by anyone (myself included) for quite some time I can say whatever the fuck I want, so here goes.
Nothing fucks with my head quite like girls. In a span of a week I went from infatuation to spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you love. And now I'm alone. I'm not built for one nighters, and the fact that my headspace isn't where it should be only compounds the problem.
I was always a sucker for a pretty face, and she was the prettiest, not to mention the funniest and craziest girl I had met in a long time. I went out that night with her square in my sights, and told her as much when we got back to my house. It was the happiest waking up hungover for work I've ever been. And yet I'm not sure if I should be happy with how things went down. Would I be better off if this had never happened or should I be happy with what I got and move on? Is there any possiblity of this developping into something or was she just scratching itches? This is why I hate one nighters, I'm always asking myself these questions the next day, but I digress...
It seems I'm dealing with yet another bout of crazies that is only compounding the issue. Once particular thoughts get into my head in this state, they tend to stick around. I haven't taken my pills for quite some time and now every thought/emotion/urge that I've covered up with alcohol or mania is back and cranked to eleven. Instead of jumping from hot topic to trendy emotion like I have for the past few months, all I can feel is sadness and despair and it won't go away.
I find myself (as I often do during these times) wondering what MY identity is. Am I that far off that all I can do is spew quotes and regurgitate pop culture? Am I so destitude for personality that I'm just a mosaic of everything around me, adding nothing of my own substance? Sure, Alex Rodriguez makes 25.2 million a year, they say "fuck" 182 times in Scarface, and I can name the last 3 people Paris Hilton dated. WHAT FUCKING GOOD IS THIS STUFF TO ME?
As Tyler Durden would say:
"Is this essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word?" The answer of course is no. The ideals in that book/movie appeal to me like no religion ever could, and yet I can't seem to adapt my life to even remotely match. Society seems to have trapped me into a box in which I am destined to be a faceless, following, schill. Maybe that's what's getting me down. I need to bust out and travel, own a unicycle, skydive, appear on Jeopardy!, climb a mountain, play in a band, find a soul mate, leave a legacy, and all the things I want to do with my life. Does anybody ever really do everything they want to with their life? I sure as fuck am going to try.
Here's to Twenty-odd six.