Sometimes the flavour pack on a particular instance of ramen will cause my guts to turn a little, but nothing like this.

A


s I was riding my bicycle home from work, my stomach felt bloated and painful. This feeling had turned to acid indigestion by the time I went to bed.

I woke up at 11:30 am with horrible pains from the same general vicinity. The pains were thrashing around left and right, accompanied by the sound of hesitantly flowing liquids. It was as if an especially rot-enlivened Theresa was trapped in there with all her pointy metal jewelry and clunkiest of gothic boots. I went to the bathroom to throw up, but couldn't bring myself to. So I took a bath instead. This made me feel good enough to return to bed. I have no idea what was wrong with me; my stomach is one thing I can always count on not to let me down. I feed it the most horrible series of things, and it never complains. Sometimes the flavour pack on a particular instance of ramen will cause my guts to turn a little, but nothing like this.

I awoke at about 3pm after a crazy series of dreams. In one of these, I was a member of one of two bands of youthful freedom fighters. The other band was comprised of younger people than those in my group, and though there was some rivalry between the two bands, we were unified in fighting the common enemy (whatever that was). In the last scene of the dream, our two bands had a pizza party. The pizzas being eaten by my group were loaded with toppings and yummy looking, but the pizzas of the other group were sparse and unappetizing, with their artificial-looking toppings arranged into little geometric patterns (no doubt this was inspired by revolting little "pizza kits" I saw advertised recently on television; supposedly something to put in junior's lunch pail.). I was the only member of my band left at the pizza party, along with only one member of the younger band. He chastised my group for the amount of pizza we'd wasted.

They aren't doing anything with their lives because all they know to do is work menial jobs, drink beer, watch television and screw like bunnies. They have no impulse to create.

After I awoke, I called Global Computer Marketers (or whoever it is from whom I ordered a Pentium motherboard) to investigate what had become of the motherboard I'd ordered 12 days ago. It turned out the product exists no more and my order had been simply canceled, without anyone telling me. Hmmm... So I ordered another motherboard. For all my grief, they're covering shipping and handling this time. I wonder what ways I could make them jump if they knew about my tendency to discuss matters like this on the World Wide Web.

While I'm here at UVA's Olssen Hall, Matthew Hart and Angela are doing their little afternoon sex ritual in his room back at Kappa Mutha Fucka. Watching their sad little needy co-dependent lives makes me shake my head, sometimes in anger. I'm glad that I am confident enough with my place in the world that I don't continually need a lover and sex to justify my existence. Matthew and Angela are slaves to a system created partly by teenage peer pressure and partly by genetic predispositions. But they're never really happy. They aren't doing anything with their lives because all they know to do is work menial jobs, drink beer, watch television and screw like bunnies. They have no impulse to create. And while they may do a lot of screwing, what possible meaning can it have now, in the apparent absence of love? It must have degenerated into a chore long ago.

Joe Christ's single defining trait is that he once had a penis, but that at some point in his life, he lost it.

I


t's a beautiful, fairly warm day. I think I'll be seeing Joe Christ do a little live show at the Downtown Artspace tonight. For those who don't recall, Joe Christ is the guy who made the movie Sex, Blood and Mutilation, a copy of which Monster Boy stole from Plan 9. The movie so impressed us that Monster Boy and I both sent email to Mr. Christ. He became involved in a substantial correspondence with Monster Boy, who went on to arrange with Jenfariello for tonight's show. Joe Christ's single defining trait is that he once had a penis, but that at some point in his life, he lost it. The story is that he trimmed it off voluntarily as an act of body modification. See the photo of his stump in my March 14th entry.

I was thinking about the broken windows and the broken bathroom door again this evening. These are all things caused by Matthew when he's been drunk. He seems to find plenty of time to waste away his hours with Angela or with a bottle, but there's never any time to fix what he breaks. I put a sign on the plastic and newspaper covering the window; it read:

PUT DOWN THE BEER
GET OFF THE GIRL
AND FIX ME

They're usually calm, collected, and pathetic (albeit in a manner that warrants no sympathy).

At a certain point, I have to be a check to Matthew's greedy unconcern for the welfare of his housemates. As for Leah and Rory, I think I'll call the police if I see them at my house again. Though self-destructive and a menace to all around them (particularly their best friends), they're usually calm, collected, and pathetic (albeit in a manner that warrants no sympathy). But their effects on an uncontrollable Matthew are best avoided.

---

W


ell, sorry folks, but I never made it to see Joe Christ. I went to bed, setting my alarm for 8:30pm so I'd be able to go, but no one was downstairs when I awoke, and I needed a ride. So I set my alarm for work time and returned to bed. CJ, Matthew Hart's redneck friend from Waynesboro, is still around, and he was up when I was heading out through the cold black ocean to work. The process of not smoking indoors appears to be an extremely taxing one for him.

one year ago

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