EVERYONE HAS AIDS!

AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!

AIDS-AIDS-AIDS-AIDS-AIDS AIDS! AIDS!

---------------------------------

I'm sick.

---------------------------------

So I'm sitting at a table not paying attention to what's going on (someone's making a speech about something or the other, how great things are probably), and I notice there are goldfish on the table, in vases as a centerpiece. I spend the next 5 minutes pondering this decorating decision, because I'm bored.

On the one hand, it pretty effectively conveys the excess of rockstardom (the theme of the night has something to do with rockstars, although everyone's still in evening dress), on the other hand, they're going to die.

But it turns out that we, the guests, get to/have to take them home. Roomate took home six, saying she'd take care of them (I'm not much for fish).

They put us in a rickety ass building, the damn sound system doens't work.

I feel pretty lost at this point, though I can smile and nod with the best of them.

--------------------------------

Looking at my whole AIM setup, I realize now that I have a whole lot of people I don't talk to. About half I've never IMed.

I just like to read profiles.

--------------------------------

There was karaoke at the afterparty. I'm definately not much for karaoke. It's interesting and fun to watch, at least, but I don't feel like testing out my singing voice. Except this one time someone put on Narcolepsy by Mr. Folds, and I sang along, albeit in the audience.

I knew it better that they did, I should have cued them on the "I'm not tired"s at the end.


At this point I've put on my dog collar (with spikes!), because I think that's appropriate.

I'm feeling a little pissy, because I've been (or feel I have been) hornswaggled into being a DD.


I can't get too pissy, however, because the guy's in a wheelchair and therefore doesn't get to go out much and I never DD for anyone. I have to check myself and not be an ass.

I'm wandering around, occasionally meandering out to the dance floor, but I have less rhythm when I'm sober and it seems my legs start to ache sooner.

I'm really hitting the soft drinks pretty hard at this point. Someone responsible should cut me the fuck off.


I pat my pockets absently and realize I can't find my wallet.




Nobody panic.

---------------------------------------

In the space of less than an hour, Roomate has pulled a fishtank from out of nowhere and filled it.

We now have six goldfish, all of whom I disavow responsibility for.

---------------------------------------

I've run to my house and back twice, and I'm really starting to lose it.

I'm raging, I am filled with rage.

I make the trip back home one last time, and find my wallet under my desk.

I am serene.



I've lent my collar to this one girl who came in a PVC bustier (for lack of a better word) type thing, because she looked better in it. I already know her, so I'm not being sleazy.

She's trying to teach me rhythm, but it's not working out to well. My legs hurt. I want to go home, but Dapper Dan (cause I'm DD get it get it?) isn't ready yet.

bitch bitch bitch rawwr so angwy.

--------------------------------------

I'm feeling spacey right now, and sick.

I might use this night to find and exploit all the 24 hour facilities I can find.

------------------------------------

And so this is the end of our story,

and everyone is dead from AIDS.

-----------------------------------

I've had to go to the bathroom around 3 times in the last 2 hours.

I've been hydrating myself like a motherfucker to fight off this whatever-I-have, but I might also be getting type-2 diabetes.

Having type-1 diabetes is enough to render you "uninsurable" by health insurance companies, as I learned today.

However, being a smoker is not.

Interesting: that's complete horseshit.

But, that class was tossing around some serious smoker hate, so I stayed out of the discussion.

I mean,

they were fucking bitter.


Jesus, lighten up guys.
-----------------------------------

It took from me my best friend, my only true pal, my only bright star.

-----------------------------------

Apparently the night wasn't over, there was an afterafterparty. I was hoping the Dapper Dan would be tired so I could take him home and then go suck on a bottle, but no such luck.

I keep my grumbling to a minimum. I don't usually have anyone to drive me around, but I do sometimes.

I'm getting good at taking apart his wheelchair and putting it back together.

-----------------------------------

There are asian guys playing cards and doing push-ups for shits and giggles not 10 feet to the right of me.

Like, right now.


Full moon, I guess.

-----------------------------------

It seems unseasonably cold.

By this time I have my collar back, PVC apparently wasn't going to the afterafterparty.

I told her she was lame. I also asked her why she had the outfit, and she basically told me that there was a fake reason (costume for the thing with the goldfish) and a real reason. She wanted me to guess the real reason. The reason immediately came to me, but I dismissed it and didn't answer.

When I get to the afterafterparty, I have to draft someone to help me carry Dapper Dan up the stairs. Five minutes later I have to get someone to carry him back down, because the afterafterparty's host didn't clear the whole afterafterparty with her roomates first, and they wanted us to fucking get the fuck out.

It's 3:00 around this time.

But someone is willing (and has permission) to host the afterafterafterparty, so...

----------------------------------------------------


Well, I'm gonna march on Washington, lead the fight and charge the brigades.

There's a hero inside of all of us.







I'll make them see everyone has AIDS.

----------------------------------------------------

They're still doing those goddamn push-ups.

No really, what the hell?

---------------------------------------------------

I hate caravans. I'm still unhappy about being sober.

---------------------------------------------------
My father


AIDS!


My sister


AIDS!

My uncle and my cousin and her best friend (AIDS AIDS AIDS).

-----------------------------------------------

At the afterafterafterparty, a friend of mine's (whom I will call Explosion, because that's the sort of thing that's funny to me right now) little sister (who looks 22 but is actually 17) is trying desperately to fuck this rather dirty looking pothead faux-surfer type person. The kind with the hair in the face, sad eyes, insistent hands and the omni-present flip-flops.

Little Explosion is pretty, but I can't say I respect her taste.

There she is against the wall again.

Did she even bother to talk to him first?

Explosion's pretty drunk, but she's still trying to protect her sister's honor.


But as soon as she turns her back...

Damn,

now they're trying bedroom doors.


That guy is so dirty.

---------------------------------------------

The gays and the straights and the whites and the spades,

everyone has AIDS!


My grandma and my old dog Blue (AIDS AIDS AIDS).


The Pope has got it and so do you (AIDS-AIDS-AIDS-AIDS-AIDS).

-----------------------------------------------

Of course, I'm supposed to be doing something else right now, like writing about the National Service Act of 2001 or 2003 or whatever.

-----------------------------------------------

I've basically just been sitting on the couch at the afterafterafterparty. So are a lot of other people. The party is fast dying in it's 3rd incarnation: it's after 4.

PVC turned up after all, so I re-lent her the collar. She's just been sitting around, though.

I'm still watching the fast declining Explosion trying to save her sister from the clap. The fact that I find it amusing illustrates how I have no conscience.

I find a bathroom, but get kicked out by two other friends of mine, one of whom have to go worse. I guess the other one holds her hand. They may or may not be bisexual. Most likely not, but sometimes one has to wonder. While I wait out in the connecting bedroom, I realize it belongs to someone I know of but don't know, and for some reason the room becomes more familiar.

That doesn't go anywhere, that was just an aside.


Damn. Little Explosion really wants to rut.

Explosion pulls her away, and she goes riiiiiiight back. Explosion has even chewed the dirrty guy out, but those sad eyes and hands won't be denied their jailbait prize.

He probably has sad poems that double as really really deep songs about life and unfairness and lonliness and pot and your beautiful eyes for his acoustic guitar that he sings to all the high school girls.

I ask PVC why she isn't up and about, and she comments that she wants a lapdance. So I get would-be afterafterparty's host to give her one, which makes her happy. It was really hot, and you all wish you could have seen it.

PVC is naïve, a little goofy and a little strange, but so is every other engineering major.

She's also very tall, possibly taller than me.

Explosion looks to be losing the battle for her sister's continued lack of venereal disease, and I think about stepping in. I'm not particularly strong, but he's smaller than me and I have a lot of rage. I could have an excuse to really hurt someone.

You'd hate this guy just to look at him, so I'm not completely psycho.

But by now all the responsible (or at least the one's with consciences) people have taken it upon themselves to keep Little Explosion from trading one itch in the pants for another, so now the main concern is that Explosion pretty much can't stand anymore.

Or it would be if had a conscience.

I've went over this.

-----------------------------------------------

Come on everybody we've got quiltin' to do.

-----------------------------------------------

About this time someone walks out the door with a skateboard.

That can't be any good.


So I go out to make sure he didn't kill himself, but lo and behold he's shredding (is that the appropriate verb?) like a pro, even while buzzed. He tells me that skateboarding was pretty much the only thing to to on St. Simon's.

Skateboarding isn't the sort of thing I think of as happening in Georgia.

---------------------------------------------

This isn't going anywhere, in case you were wondering.

---------------------------------------------

PVC looks incredibly bored so I gentlemanly extend my hand and we begin to grind on each other.



As another aside, I'm just hoping that when a girl grinds her crotch on your knee it gets her off a little. What's-her-face totally did that to me once, it would just be a high point of my life if I knew it gave her warm, tingley feelings.

I've found and stolen pictures of her off the internet. I am pathos, god of patheticisism. I will see her again one time (1) in May, and then neeeeeeevvvvveeeeeerrrr again. Hopefully she will be too busy for me to corner her and burst into whiny emo tears of sadness all over her perfect perfect shoulders.



As I'm dancing with her, I've just realized that PVC probably likes me, and I'm wondering what to do about it. For lack of a better plan, I kiss her. She does like me.

We're still kissing, and because nothing else is happening people take pictures.

I break it off first, and then there's the awkwardness, which I don't know how to handle and proves too much for her so she goes outside, upset a little maybe.

I sit down to think and notice everyone is studiously avoiding looking my way.

Dapper Dan finally wants to go home.



Sorry Charlie, not quite yet.

-----------------------------------------------

Gonna break down these barricades everyone has

AIDS-AIDS-AIDS
AIDSAIDSAIDSAIDSAIDSAIDS

-----------------------------------------------

After a couple of minutes I realize I'm not going to think of anything really smooth to say and so I join PVC outside and tell her that I think I like her, because I'm too much of a pussy not to use a mitigator.

She tells me she likes me. Her eyes are dilated and the corners of her mouth are trembling, which makes me scared and slightly ashamed.

I have a reservation with causing strong emotions, positive or negative. I should have touched her cheek or something. She is trembling, and I don't know what to do with that.

After a little more pussy-footing around from me we make a date and make out again and people take more pictures.

I can't imagine a situation where people would actually get these developed.


Oh here's these two random people making out.

I don't really see it.


I have to say goodbye and take Dapper Dan home. It is 5:30, and I've convinced myself I can see the barest traces of dawn.

I go home. At this point I realize I'm going to get sick, because PVC had some sort of disease that rendered her hoarse (trashy, aren't I?).

It's what I'm afflicted with right now.

Murder Wilkerson is quiet, and probably empty, I go to sleep 6ish.

-----------------------------------------------

AIDS-AIDS-AIDS
AIDSAIDSAIDSAIDSAIDSAIDS

-----------------------------------------------

When I wake up, I find 5 dead goldfish in the tank that I have to fish out with a spatula and flush down the toilet.

Goldfish.


It's like a bad joke.

-----------------------------------------------

AIDS

F11

I was feeling down on myself this past weekend because I'd apparently upset someone until it clicked with me that is was more like they were just being really whiny.

That's a possibility that's never occured to me before.

They're just so sensitive.








Gosh.

Post from the FUTURE

I've decided that since the time on my posts is never right anyways, I'm going to have fun with it.

For example, this post is two days from now, and the one right before it I just posted 15 years ago.

So, on your side of the post, I was in North Carolina yesterday, but from my side of the post I really haven't left let.


So actually, you're in the future, and I'm in the past.

I've stolen an entire day from you.


I'm going to blackmail Congress.

Tomorrow.



...

!!!!

Special Needs.

Today I saw Capitalism and Communism square off.

Sunday I lost my cellphone of 2 ½ years. It was my first.

I have not a lot of money in my bank account.

I have a new cellphone that is shiny.

Last Monday I discovered that whereas I'm above average at public speaking, I'm terrible at doing it in front of my friends.

This Monday I did something silly.


My old cellphone, with the purchase of a 2 year plan, cost me $2. It was a an old phone even for 2002, big and blue and primitive, lacking even the ability to tell time, vibrate or display colors. I bought it before I had friends, so I could keep it on without it ever ringing. It had games on it, which was a surprise to me. The only one I really ever played was Snake, my high score was something like 240 I think, but it was on the slowest level.

The snake itself at that point basically took up the entire screen, I was quite proud.


Capitalism (who was hosting) should have been quite proud at the turnout: the room was fucking packed. There were people literally hanging from the walls. People were expecting quite the debate, it'd been 40 years delayed, apparently. Communism was a bit of a disappointment though, he was meloncholy and soft-spoken and always seemed to never quite answer the question, though he put forth a couple of good points.

Or at least they seemed to be good: Communism brought out these points at final remarks, and as he spoke last Capitalism couldn't address them, which says to me that he was anxious to not have them picked at.

Capitalism looked like a male version of Janet Reno, if that's not too redundant. He had game-show host hair and flair. He made us laugh, whereas Communism made us smirk. Communism wasn't a professor, he writes articles for magazine, he couldn't command a room of 300 people like Capitalism could.


I can command a room. But I think it's because people who don't know me (and some who do) see me as unendingly and disturbingly quiet, so to see me apparently easily take tones of authority short-circuits their minds a little.


Which is what I did to my old phone. As I started to get people to know people who might call me, I became paranoid of my phone going off at bad times (it never, ever did). Simply turning it off wasn't enough, I had to physically disconnect the battery from the contacts (simple enough, just press the button, the whole thing had the look and sound [and often violence] of sliding a clip into a semi-automatic [which made some cops give me the hard stare every so often]), often two or three times, because I'm obsessive-compulsive. I did this once at a movie, and hurt it badly: one of the contacts became bent. From this point on, it had to be handled with great delicacy or the battery would loose the connection and the phone would go off (which it also did randomly). It became a special-needs phone.


I might have special-needs: I do silly things sometimes. Monday I bought a trombone from a goddamn consignment store. It ran me $20. To be clear, trombones cost a bit more than that usually. The only problem I see with it (other than it's a damn pea-shooter) is that the end of the slide is crushed in, and that the water key faces upwards (what/how/why/who in the hell?).

It's a special-needs trombone, but if I can get it fixed up I'll actually own an instrument again.

I have to hand the one I have in Wednesday after my concert (I'm playing these three songs. Yes, the first one is that song, and the last one is done by a high school band, so it sounds not so good).

I have names for my special-needs horn: Broadcaster II, The Antique, Bottom of the Barrel, The Special Boy, The Fixer-upper, I Am Stupid, I Am Really Stupid, The Space Badger, and more of the like.

It was a waste of money most likely, but music probably ended up keeping me alive (e m o, but true), so I have issues with leaving it, but my passion far outstrips my ability.


That's what she said.


I've been pondering leaving music (READ: band) though, because I have almost no friends in the musical side of my life.

That gets old.

I had to participate in my school's football scrimmage, and as always there was plenty of time to sit around. I pulled out my phone, cradled it delicately, and for the first time in God-knows-how-long played Snake again. I scored 50 points. I'm out of practice. The next day I left it in a computer lab and somebody must have picked it up.

That's happened before, but check this: the thief gave it back.

Because: I am the only person in the entire world who can make it work.

At the end I had to turn it on, hold it upside down and squeeze it with both my hands until I thought it would break, and that only worked half the time.

That's a secret I told no one. Only Odysseus could string his bow, and only I could work my phone.

It was completely irrational that I didn't replace it, if you're confused on that point.


Considering my considerable attachment to material things, it's pretty amusing/ironic/hypocritical that I consider myself an anarchist (non-practicing).

Consider this: I can be an anarchist as long as I behave, because the Georgia constitution provides for a freedom of conscience. I know because I have it in my bag.

Like, right now.


That's pretty crazy, considering.


I'm going to Greenville tomorrow. I'm worried because I have low funds.

But now I'm not worried.


I wrote this post in two installments: I took a break to eat and now I feel completely different.

I have more and worse moodswings than a pregnant woman.

Which reminds me of a dream.

In the dream,

I am an ultrasound technician, and I was doing an ultrasound on a patient (a girl in my biomedical ethics class I have a crush on, she has silver fingernails and teaches yoga and doesn't know my name). The baby's head is abnormally large, and is in fact growing visibly.

I say

I'm afraid it's Down's Syndrome

to which she says

Nonsense, I'm fucking 22 years old, give me that thing

that thing is what I'm doing the ultrasound with, apparently a small cedar divining rod taped to a remote control. I do not give it to her. The baby's head continues to grow at an alarming rate

I say

You're right, it's a bomb

because it is, it was planted by biomedicalgenetical terrorists.

I say

We have to do a inter-universal C section

and then we're in an operating room, and I am the surgeon. My scalpel is the subtle knife, except it looks nothing like that. I cut into the fabric of reality a couple of inches above her abdomen (which isn't at all swelled with pregnancy), reach with the knife a little further in, cut back into this reality, and yank out the bombaby.

Now I have to defuse it.

I say

I have to defuuuuuuuuuuuuuusssse it

So I open the hatch in the side of it's head (now I'm in alone in some hellish nightmare dimension, but my attention is focused on the baby boomer) and it's full of isolinear chips. I rearrange them in their slots, but it's no good so I pull a bat out of my lab coat and beat the thing to sprockets.

I say

gogglegogglegoggle goggle

Something else happens after that, but I forget and I think that's for the best.

Goddamn

Why won't it please goddamn stop goddamn raining at goddamn midnight when I always goddamn got to goddamn go home goddamn?


I mean, goddamn, this is like two goddamn weeks in a goddamn row.