snapped some teeth in half.

Pens and paper, pens and paper, pens and paper...

Morning sex. Of course. Sex before you get coffee, and some more later to celebrate. I carted a girl around West Philly on my trike, and we slowly got to the business of drinking coffee and buying a couple cheap mugs for me to drink coffee out of later. Brave girl. Trikes are serious business.

After that, I hung out with Gowa for a bit. She and Scott and the rest of the dudes are leaving on tour tomorrow. She's a full Shawnee, and she's fun to talk to. We had another round of coffee.

Fast forward to night time, and I smashed my front teeth in half on the trunk of a parked Mercedes. Amazingly, that's all that got hurt. Except that the trike is fucked. The fork bent back until the front wheel was hitting the frame. My teeth were definitely fucked. Fangs. I turned my teeth into fangs because I got drunk and crashed my trike.

I got to a punk show late because my buddy was playing in one of the bands. Substances were too readily available. I stepped over the line and then I started running. By the time I left with my buddy, I was barely there. I was six blocks from home, and we got nearly a mile off track. Then I smashed out big chunks of my teeth on the trunk of a Mercedes. I stood up and looked. Two fucked up bits of tooth sat there on the trunk. I picked them up and tossed them across the sidewalk. My buddy locked up the trike for me, and we walked back to my place.

The Trike is a good machine, but you can't take driving lessons from Carlo Rossi and expect to remain unscathed. I said goodnight and don't worry about it to my friend. Snake tooth will be better dealt with in the morning.

I think I might be happy.

More tofu hoagies. More music. Same room.

Just sex. More sex and sex. A little bit of laying around. Plenty of calm touching skin, and sex. Laughter and more sex.

Pens and paper, pens and paper, pens and paper...

Breathe in, breathe in, breath in...

... exhale.

I think we might like to have sex together. I think I might be happy.

Dating terms and how awesome I might be.

She thinks I'm "rebounding." I have a general idea of what that means, but I don't think it applies to me. I think most of these concepts and dating terms are over there. I'm over here. I'm out of my mind, I readily admit. But when I look down?; both feet on the ground.

This is when I think about writing in notebooks. I try to summarize my thoughts and actions here, but when they get as foggy as this sentence, I begin to recognize the anonymous value of pens and paper.

It's more than sex. It's more than friendship. That's not enough.

I might get hurt. I don't want to. It's not up to me.

It's the good kind of problem to have. In fact, if I had to choose a problem from a list, this would be the one I'd pick. In fact, I'll no longer frame this situation as a problem. It's potentially a dagger, but maybe time will pass and nobody will get stabbed. I'm a calm character. I'm just trying to be honest and realistic.

The second half of my day is fairly predictable.

Shelly came over to eat tofu hoagies and listen to music. It was great. I've rearranged my room, and I could not love it more. I got a portable radiator-style heater. I won't wake up with cold toes again. I have a chair. I have colorful pretty lights. I have good speakers. I could not like this room any more. Wait... No... I was right. This room is perfect.

I got lit up as fuck, and Shelly drove me and my roommate and his girlfriend around to a couple parties. I overdid it like I always do, and I don't know whether I came across like a fucking idiot flake or if I glanced by just under the radar.

Pens and paper, pens and paper, pens and paper...

Trikes and being drunk

I made the bold claim to have conquered anxiety with the use of never-ending music. Just don't let the music stop. A few hours later, I was proven wrong. My chest hollowed out, and the expression on the inside of my face went blank and serious. Time stood still, and I hung in the balance. Only a light breeze. Only light external cues could float me around.

I bought a jug of wine. I stayed after work with my buddy and I replaced both of the chains on my trike. I changed the seatpost to one that is long enough, and I put a milk crate on the back. Chug, chug, chug. Calm, calm, calm.

We locked the doors and headed toward West Philly. My buddy tried the trike, and promptly smashed into the back of a parked van. Maybe wine after work isn't such a great idea. Nevermind. Of course it is.

He wasn't looking so hot. He really smashed his foot good on that parked van. We got back to my buddy's place, and I watched as he carefully slid off his shoe. Blood. I watched as he peeled off his sock. The nail was fucked, and that much I can say confidently and for certain. He thought it was broken, but my expert opinion was that it probably wasn't.

I left him to his various devices. I went to a sorta rowdy hardcore show next door. After more wine and beer and beer, I recognized that it was definitely time to trike home. I don't remember getting a huge scrape on my arm, but I do remember sliding down the steps from my room at 2am. I lost a lens from my glasses, and assumed it came out after a forgotten date with some pavement. I was quite elated to find the lens on my floor when I got up for work the next morning.

Great Apartment; Great People; Crochet

I didn't get up until nearly 2pm. I kept sleeping and staying under the blanket. I looked out my large picture window at a rainy day and the tops of trees swaying in the mist. The cool air in my bedroom had me folding my blanket over my feet like and envelope.

"Hey Buddy!"

As I emerged from my lair (I really am renting an entire lair), I was greeted warmly by Scott's lady friend Gowa. My house has a constant revolving cast of friendly characters. She's traveled and lived out of cars. She's from Nashville now. She's built a wigwam hidden and buried deep in a huge park there. She grew up on a reservation. She's done stuff. We sat and talked, and it underscored that I'm paying rent at the right place.

I spent the time it takes to get comfortable with crochet. Two huge coffees at Satellite, and several hours at home. I stayed up late and was practically sober for once as I listened to new music and crocheted a respectable looking square with orange yarn. I need plenty of practice, of course, but this was progress. Somewhat of a breakthrough.

Music, Fermentation, Socializing and Yarn.

At 7:21pm, I was driving toward Philadelphia listening to Skrillex. I'm also nuts about The Knife's "Deep Cuts," and intrigued but not quite sold on material by Napalm Death. I found some nice hidden potential gold on GoodMusicAllDay.com. I'm currently asking for and taking suggestions about what to download. I am listening to everything that is suggested. I'm trying not to let the music stop. It's getting close to being all I do.

I was driving toward Philly with the loose intention of attending a fermentation gathering across the street. My basic policy is to attend anything I'm invited to - pending mild interest and a semblance of geographic reason. This was to make cheap booze. Or so I thought. In reality it seemed awkward. I didn't fit in. I sat with a 32oz Gatorade bottle of wine, and tried not to say much. There was some food, which was nice.

I got some sexy txts, and it underscored in my mind that i should make my escape. I went to the other side of the street where it was safe.

So, I tried to socialize, and it didn't work much. No bother. I hung out with my roommates. I exchanged more sexy txt messages and had a nice punctuated typing conversation about who I am and what I do. I listened to music, and I played with yarn.

Taco Tuesday

I woke up with Kristin. We got coffee in styrofoam cups at the country store in the woodsy boonies. I goofed around in Kennett all day until it was time to meet up again for 'taco tuesday' in West Chester. We're meeting up all over the map. It was a gathering for mutual friend's birthday at the bar. Back to her place after pints and tacos. I have plenty of time, and I'm willing to spend it all wisely.

French Creek Fail

Thought I'd visit some friends who I expected to find at French Creek State Park. Took the van, and expected drinking around a fire. It was a little bit rainy and a little bit chilly. Sweatshirt / hat weather. I felt confident of successful fun. They were headed out by bicycle, so I wondered how damp they got.

It turns out not too damp. They headed back home after about half the ride. I poked around a couple campsites after dark, and even made my patented pigeon-call noise at the wrong folks in the woods.

Failing that, I drove all the way to Kristin's, which in my book was about as good, but actually probably better. I drove the van a lot and listened to The Knife and many others.

Illegal Mushrooms, Skrillex, and My Heart

I sat alone after work. I was perched upon a stool in front of the computer and I spent some time taking up space. My buddy at work was talking about his three-story beer bong so much that I invited myself over. It was constructed for a rowdy party last night, but it still remained standing. I was intrigued.

I sat alone on the stool and checked my email. I didn't bother to write. I didn't bother to read. I was wasting time until I felt motivated to leave.

I locked the front doors and set the alarm. I unlocked my trike and set my iPod to Skrillex. All I can hear right now is Skrillex.

I stopped by Pasqualley's Pizza and got some of what they really sell, which is a million varieties of crunk beers. I picked up a 40oz Mickey's for me, and a six pack of Pabst in case of beer bonging. I went to visit my friend.

I didn't drink any beer from his sections of garden hose, but I did manage to score some illegal mushrooms from another guy. These are fruitful times, it seems.

I ate about an eighth of mushrooms. Color and light were in full force by the time I convinced myself that finishing the beer in my hand was more a product of non-wastefulness than any inherent want. I said my goodbyes as a familiar Blood Sweat & Tears song formed a cloud in front of the record player. I beat my way to the trike and set my sights toward home.

I proceeded with Plan A, which was to listen to music. Illegal mushrooms were a welcome addition. With no work tomorrow, I fell into the easy process of getting completely lost inside of a Skrillex album.

I got lost in that album and some others. I managed to get some water, but it was apparent from the start that the menu for the night included no food. My room is fairly poor at being insulated, and the crisp night replicated itself inside of the attic. Instead of putting on pants and two hoodies, I got lost under my thin blanket until I was warm enough to look at music again.

With illegal mushrooms can sometimes come an epiphany. Between bouts of Skrillex, I kept my ears and insides wide open for one. That's the spiritual side of my occasional drug use. I didn't get an epiphany, but I began to recognize the obvious more clearly. I'm falling too quickly for Kristin. Of course I like her. I'm absolutely enamored. But the signals are clear that we have different ideas. Words are stronger than signals: she's told me twice that we're not a good match.

I'm reasonable and calm enough to recognize exactly what she means. Maybe she wants one of those kinds of guys that has a plan. Money, houses and children are a few things that people tend to aim for. I need to find a balance between keeping my heart in check and not doing anything to fuck up an important friendship. I can't get clingy or blind, and I'll need to settle for reality. I clearly recognize that this is in my best interest.

I write all kinds of ideas here. I share insecurities. I try to stay humble in life and text. (Only about 9 people read this, so it doesn't matter much - but if you actually like it, tell a friend. I don't exactly advertise.)

I am one fucking confident guy. I love myself and I think I am so fucking awesome. I am fun and smart and you should really want to be around me. I am an absolute gold mine. I am so fucking friendly and funny. What do you like? I like that too. Did I mention how goddamned handsome I am? I'm also strong as an ox, and have the resting heart-rate of an athlete. Alcoholic? No. I just drink a lot sometimes. Anxiety? No. That's just the sound of me eating breakfast. I love life. I have goals. I will succeed in my goals because they are not materially based. I will not trade my time and money for bills and ropes that tie me to time clocks and more bills. I will continue to find happiness and comfort. I will try new foods and meet new people. I love the hell out of myself. I'm not priced for a quick sale, but I am a bargain at twice the price for an educated consumer.

What I mean by the previous paragraph is that I am more confident than I feel comfortable letting on. Someone who writes publicly about every day of their life has an ego that is definitely suspect. But I'm humble, which is a fucking awesome quality.

The entire point of this is that I'm sorta getting ahead of myself because I met a new girl that I think is totally hot and smart and funny. My initial instinct is to spray-paint my name on her and steal all of her free time. But I won't be all mopey if I'm not her personal Jesus. I admit: I could be prone to jealously, but it would probably take something mean or tactless. And I definitely want to be the best at sex. In any case, the cards are on the table. We talk openly, and she reads all of the stuff that I write.

Going to see The Buried Beds.

I went to see the Buried Beds play at a bar called Kung Fu Necktie. I used to live on Howard Street. I lived one block from that bar. I'm not ready to see some of the people who live over there, and I cussed at Dave to fucking move when he parked directly in front of my former front door. "A block up, a block up, goddamn it!"

I didn't realize how tense I am about it. Feelings can really get boiling when you see snapshots of a different time. And it was still so recent. And they still have my rice cooker.

The Buried Beds are a band that is awesome. I've liked them for a long time, but I haven't seen them play in a couple years. They're better now. I had a fantastic time, and I'm happy that one of the guys is going to be my new roommate. We've met before - he's great - and now I won't need to worry that my rent will go up.

I talked to Dave and had pizza with him and his friend. I was glad he was driving, because I was not able to pilot anything with wheels.

Sex and Soup and Blankets

What I want in my bed is slightly to the left of mainstream. What I really actually want is slightly beside the center of the road. It's great to be able to talk about it. Being told how normal I am is a medicine that helps me wake up. I spent years bumbling and fumbling around; tripping over my feet and thinking too hard. It's not a topic for a first date. If a girl isn't more aggressive than me in words or actions, then I will be a pacifist-feminist who feels super gay and forgets what time it is. I will smile and talk and it will not work out. The back of my brain will heat up with statements, and my mouth will spill banalities. Warm air will whisper stories and aspirations that are beside the point. When I hook up properly, I fall in love.

I love West Philadelphia. I love the people here, and I love my big cheap room. I love the soup at the Thai place a couple blocks away, but not as much as Kristin does. When she arrived today there was a small drunken gathering in my kitchen. Hat after hat was being crocheted together, and My Morning Jacket was audible over the chatter and silliness. Craft beers were standing on the table, and Kristin brought what it takes to assemble margaritas. We had some. I convinced this brave girl to stand on the cargo area of the trike as I pedaled out to get King Soup.

This is healthy. This is probably healthy. I could use a warmer blanket.

Begins the morning...

You don't need to sneak out of my parents house. All of the sneaking out occurred over ten years ago. Now we're comfortably in the next era. Decisions are mine and friendly reasonable girls are likely to be offered breakfast if they happen to last here until the morning.

Horse-abouts with ancient rapist-vans; men looking like a fruit-bag wrapped in a rainbow - maybe that's different. I hope that's who I am. I sincerely hope I can fill those shoes. It makes me happy in life, but it might not be something you want to rattle around in your daughter's bed at night. Respectfully, I walked out while nobody was paying much attention. Today began. With a peck on the lips and a key in the ignition.

Dubstep, Life, and Trikes

I spent plenty of time sorting out my music collection. It's all digital, and it's a sorry state of affairs. I have a ton of music. Some of it I don't like, and some of it I don't know. There is a disproportionate amount that I know and love. I'm finding new music all the time, and I'm trying to organize myself so I can find and listen to more new tunes.

I don't have the internet at my apartment. I wanted it before, but now I don't. I listen to music, play with yarn, write in a notebook, and read books. I drink gallons of wine and fill my room with every sort of empties. This is as good a time as any in my life. By that I mean that I am happy. I have the best room, fantastic roommates, and sometimes Kristin comes over to eat soup until it's time to snore.

It's 7:21pm, though. And I'm in Kennett Square. Kristin won't be over for another hour, and there will be no snoring tonight. There will be some drinking and music. Dubstep. I downloaded hours of dubstep along with other curious new items.

The girl left early. By that I mean late. I cruised my three-wheeled conveyance to the bar and parked it in the middle of the sidewalk. I sat with just about nobody until it was time to dubstep the trike down the middle of an empty road.

The Specialty of the Trike Rider

Trikes.

I got up early enough to ride a bicycle to work. It wasn't in my heart. I unlocked the trike and began the slow roll. Coasting slowly is the specialty of the trike rider.

I cranked the rusty tricycle along the streets of West Philadelphia with the seat several inches too low. When I roll to a stop, my feet stay on the pedals. I can put up my feet and relax on the seat like it was a chair. Balance is the specialty of the trike rider.

My thumb scrolled my iPod to deliver music to my ears. Multi-tasking is the specialty of the trike rider. Enjoyment is up; speed is down. I got to work just in time to feel great.

Trike Life.

"Brother, I gotta tell you. That bike is extremely gangster."

Homeless guys in Clark Park love my trike. I was chilling out on the trike and watching Evan juggle. The usual gang was hanging out by the statue drinking morning beers. I've been cruising around on the trike, and I found Evan at the coffee shop a couple hours ago.

Life is complete now. Ever since I got the trike, everything is calm and perfect. I ride around wearing my party socks and any other colorful garments I choose to don. As I went through the intersection at 46th and Spruce, I got a great response to this. Explosive laughter from an open car window. That's what I'm talking about.

I've gotten many compliments on the trike. Trikes are silly and they have a lot of potential. Cargo capacity; ground effects. I have ideas on how to improve my ride. I want a stereo. I want a dubstep-blasting trike.

I convinced Kristin to come over. We didn't venture far. I took a ten-minute break to pick up Chinese food. I took the trike.

Trike life is good.

$60 Trike. Next Chapter Starts Now.

I thought I was walking into the ghetto to give repair advice or estimates for a trike. An adult tricycle. A customer at the shop asked if I would do this, and somehow it turned into a thing that was definitely happening. I'm not good weaseling out of things, but this time it was to my severe benefit.

It was his father's trike, and his father passed away last year. He wanted someone to take care of it. He wanted $100 for it.

I am the right man. I have wanted a trike for years. I've come close to ordering a brand new one, but decided it would be a cop out. I didn't want a brand new shiny trike. Clean new stuff isn't really my bag.

The trike is crunk. Everything is covered in rust. But everything moves, and the tires hold air. It's rideable. I offered him $60. He accepted the offer and reminded me that he really just wanted someone to take care of it in the memory of his father. I rode away with the agreement I'd give him the $60 later. He was a good guy, and he knows where I work.

My cup runeth over. Seldom have I been as happy as I was riding that trike around West Philly. Mi amor, baby. I can't believe I waited until now to own a big ridiculous tricycle. This was the last ingredient I needed to transform myself into the character I picture in my head. I am now a rolling caricature of myself. Silly has reached a fever pitch.

She Looked Radiant

Time well spent in bed. We woke up lazy and she cut banana slices into the pancakes. The day passed like a comfortable dream. At night we smoked in her car, and she looked radiant. The levels of silliness spilled over. My social comfort with marijuana is low these days, and her beautiful smile made me nervous. Am I kissing her too much?

My van is in tip top shape. And so am I.

I picked up my van from the mechanic. It's all fixed up, and I got the inspection stickers. Dirt cheap. This mechanic is America's best kept secret. God, it makes me happy. I only got two tickets for lack of inspection. I'm a whiz at procrastination.

I hopped on my bicycle and rode the eight miles to pick up the van. Traffic stopped on Broad Street as a busted cyclist was put in a stretcher. Something was broken. His Schwinn was destroyed. I inched through the mess and got a look at the man in shock and his bicycle folded in half. The seat stays were ripped right off the cluster and the heap laid there as they wheeled him away.

I drove right to Kristin's. It's fall, fuckers. This is beautiful. I drove out to the suburbs where people carve pumpkins, listen to music, and smoke weed out of an acorn squash. I want this girl in my bed always.

Second Dates. No Better Than First Ones.

I asked her out on a second date. I txt'd the girl from my date a week ago and asked if she ate food and maybe wanted to cook something. I offered to do the shopping and bring some wine. (Always with the wine these days. I'm such a fancy alcoholic. Life is getting so cool.)

I am one nervous sonofabitch. I can also over-think shit like a bastard.

We ate some food featuring vegetables and a nice polenta. We sat and talked forever. 1000 opportunities to kiss her floated by, and it started to get mentally painful. What am I doing? I couldn't stand it. I made a move, and this led to plenty of somewhat awkward kissing. It could have moved further, but I literally had to stop. No chemistry, maybe. I guess that happens. Or maybe I was just nervous and thinking too much. But I wasn't horny, and that seems strange. She's cute and I like her. Poor communication. Wrong music, no doubt. I hate this part about being a dude. The dude is supposed to make the first move. There's a lot of bullshit mind-reading, and I want out.

Oh, maybe it's this too: She's smart and she seems wholesome and nerdy. She's cute, and I think she's the bees knees. I don't want to slather her situation with a smelly kinky nasty alcoholic. I love myself just the way I am, but baloney doesn't pair well with all other foods.

Maybe I just wanted to be with Kristin instead. I don't think I'm feeling the dating thing, and I might save myself some trouble and quit trying. I'm pretty sure Kristin continues to date other people, and I'm sure I'm not stepping over any boundaries by doing the same. We're not a couple. She's just the most fun person ever.

Roommates, Neighbors, Good Intentions.

My life is getting more fucking awesome these days. I'm officially renting my room now, and it makes me more comfortable hanging out in the kitchen. People in this house are all awesome, and we all sit around in the kitchen. We drink and smoke some. Everyone here knows how to crochet, and there's a box of yarn and hats. There are many records, and music is usually folded into the deal.

We're listening to the shit Dr. Dog is working on in the studio. This girl Dre is recording with the same engineer, and we're listening to the shit she's working on too. It's fantastic. Dre's boyfriend, Forrest, is living here. He has ridiculous marijuana, and it's nice to get the giggles. It's been awhile.

I texted Becky. That's the girl I think I weirded out last night. That's the girl across the street. I asked if she wanted to walk over to my friend Kyler's to watch him throw yeast in a bucket of cider. Becky just moved to Philly and I thought she might like to meet new people. She confirmed once again that she wanted no physical relationship. Confirmed. Jesus. I assured her that I wasn't heavily invested after only hanging out for a few hours.

She invited me over for food. Plan B was to drink wine and starve to death, so I was happy to accept the invitation. I met some of her friends. I met some of her roommates. It's a great communal house, and I had a nice time drinking too much™

It's a shame my intentions need to be cleared up about a thousand times. I am an extremely harmless loaf of bread. We talked more about this on the porch. I think most people would decide to stop trying to hang out at this point, but for some reason I have a desire to bother her via text message. If everyone can stop being strange for a minute, I think we'll all get along well. The extent of my intention is basically to just get a tofu hoagie and sit around on a porch sometimes. Maybe crochet some shit.

Another First Date.

Another OkCupid date. She messaged me, and based on her profile I was excited to meet. She was smart and concise. She offered to teach me how to crochet. She claimed it was easier and more fun than knitting, and I thought it sounded like a fantastic idea.

I confirmed through text that a bottle of wine would be a good idea.

I knew she lived close, but when she gave me her address, I had to ask for it again. I told her I'd be there sooner than she thought. I walked out my front door, stepped off the porch, crossed the street, and made a bird noise to alert her that her date had arrived.

I had wine, and she had a platter with cheese and crackers. Add a porch swing, and the situation was ideal. No crochet was mentioned, and we talked for a couple hours. She's cute, she's young, she likes performance art. She's not boring or dull or normal.

I convinced her to follow me across the street to listen to music and maybe crochet. I didn't get the hang of crochet too well, but I did manage to find the courage to make a move. We kissed for awhile, and it was nice. Nice and friendly. She told me she didn't want a relationship, and this caused me to laugh. She told me she wouldn't resist me taking things further, but I can tell the difference between permission and desire.

We laid on my bed and we stared at each other. I looked her right in the eyes, and I think it made her nervous. I burst out laughing several times, and she claimed I was extremely silly. I thanked her for the compliment. I don't think she expected to drink wine and have some colorful older guy put his paws on her. I was happy to have a nice time. You can sign me up for a new friend across the street any time.

I walked her to the front door, and allowed her to escape to safety on her side of the street.

Kinkiness and Confidence.

I took this awesome fucking girl on a real date. Thai food is a little more romantic than drinking warm cans of Bud Ice in the driveway at my parents house. I still prefer the latter.

Buying condoms and wine makes me a real adult. That's all the credentials I need. This is America.

I had my questions answered about the precise levels of kinky. Kinkiness and confidence. I'm on board 100% with the former, and I'm trying to work out the second part as time goes by.

Boozin' and Bein' Sexy.

I have a deal. A bargain has been struck between drinking and symmetry. The golden square of cans was incomplete, and I'm not sure of the precise levels of kinky. A plastic handle of whiskey and pretzels are no useful piece of the puzzle.

I'm in the South Philly dog house, and I'm eating all of the leftovers. Sexy text messages are my new favorite hobby.

Dog Sitting. Mission: Animal Party.

$50 and whatever's in the fridge. I'm dog sitting for a friend of a friend in South Philly. I was over there and stacking up gold cans by sundown. There is a case of High Life in the fridge, and I'm seeing what can be done about that.

Animal party. Two dogs and four cats. After the small dog figured out that I wasn't there to rape and destroy, we became friends. At no time were there not cute and fuzzy animals eager to crawl on me and share my interests.

Dave stopped by, and I don't think I was much of a host. I was a ghost. I was a guy drinking beer amidst animals in the home of a couple girls who I've never even met.

More First Dates.

I wasn't too invested in this date. She seemed a little bit negative from the start. Fine for friends, but I think the vehemence came out a little too early. Plus, she has red hair which means it won't work.

We met in the park. We sat with bicycles and talked about bicycles. I got tired of pretending, so I went ahead and cracked open a forty. Who's fooling anyone? I think we were on the same page. She eventually had to leave, and I told her to call me if she's making soup. I won't be waiting by the phone.

The date was fantastic.

First Dates.

I dealt with a hangover and slept off some general anxiety and malaise. I got back to West Philadelphia in time to go on a date.

We met for drinks at Fiume, and within a reasonable amount of time we found topics to talk about. We were out late, and I drank very little. I held a delicious pint of pumpkin beer for an hour.

Dates are weird. I felt like I was supposed to kiss her. More accurately, I'd want to punch myself in the dick if I couldn't work up the courage. I have things to prove to myself.

I'm great at making friends, and a little hazy on all the other stuff.

Emotions, violence and promises.

Today I read "Anders Loves Maria" in its entirety. I listened to "Heartbeats" by The Knife about 45 times. The combination of these activities began to erode my weak defenses against emotion.

Fortunately, I got outside. I went to the farm. There was plenty of beer drinking. There was a dubstep dance party complete with cowboy hats. Paul helped me show Kristin a good time by ripping around on the Gator. We opened some beer cans with screwdrivers, and Paul lit my face on fire. I apologized pretty soon after punching him and throwing him on the ground with some loud fuck-yous.

The thing I really took away was the promise made by James. He said he'd quit his job next year and hike the Appalachian Trail with me. We were all drinking beer, but he said it. He's an experienced backpacker, and I intend to remind him that he said he'd quit work and start walking with me. That would be quite the adventure, I think.

Comedy Tradition Continues.

Comedy night. Boom.

Got a little tipsy. The comedian sucked. He was a dull-normal consumer with no idea how to live life as anything but a tired joke. What an idiot. I had a fucking blast stomping around campus with Shawn and Melissa. We can all stomp around like a mother.

What's in this for me?

Knee-high rainbow socks and a black crinkled cowboy hat. Colorful flair. My fashion is contrived, and personally I find this immensely enjoyable. I'm tripped out. I slipped off the plane of reality a little bit ago.  Years ago? I'm clinging to the edges, and if I let go I wonder what would happen. I would remain standing.

"What's in this for you?"

It's a valid question. I'm having fun playing around, but my penis isn't doing what it's supposed to. I'm drunk and nervous about new sex. An average of twice a day for a couple years was nice. Now I'm figuring it all out again.

What's in this for me? New friends with quirky silliness. Human connection. I'm lonely, and this helps. I like to smile, and this helps. This is wonderful.

Nothing is broken; nothing got broken.

It's 9am and I'm awake in the morning. I'm crisply folded and fully assembled. What a novel idea.

I threatened to throw my head through a wall. Only half serious; taken half seriously. I went out with some friends and nothing got broken.

Buying bicycle parts; eating cold soup.

I dressed up like a jackass and bought a whole lot of bicycle parts. I was the king of bargains, and I had a fantastic time. I had a cold can of soup for dinner, because I'm an idiot.