And if so, is that so wrong?

“I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.” -Jay-Z

Why does that line speak to me? Why now? Sigh. Michelangelo was a self-centered prick, too.

Tomorrow is Friday, should I skip my class? Class on Friday confuses me.

Am I using grad school as an exuse to not grow up?

And, if so, is that so wrong?

I met someone tonight who seemed to really get it, if only for a moment. The kind of moment that makes my heart be a heart, before the cynicism starts to leak in.

I do need to smile more.

incident

The following incident took place in my old house on Thursday, September 22, 2005…

I was sleeping soundly in my bed at about 3:30 am, in my bedroom in that big old Savannah mansion, when I was awakened by the sound of slamming doors and shouting–Nick was home and drunk again. Had this not been the third time I’d been rudely awakened by the noisiness of my housemate coming home drunk, I probably would have let it go, but it was the third time, and I decided that it was time to nip the shit in the bud.

(A biased sidenote about Nick: He is 21, he is the landlord’s brother (so he lives there for free), he is a Bush supporter and he doesn’t know why, and he didn’t seem to do anything at all aside from getting disturbingly drunk on a regular basis. I had been around him once when he had been drinking to excess, and the only way I can describe him would be to say that he is a wholly retarded drunk.)

I got out of bed, opened my door, and looking down from the balcony I asked Nick to please keep the noise down as some of us have class tomorrow and it is a weeknight… thank you. He didn’t respond–he just stared at me blankly, so I thanked him again and went back into my room. As soon as I was back in my bed, I heard what sounded like Nick going apeshit downstairs–doors slamming, shouting, things being thrown, etc. I sighed and rolled my eyes, and then lied in my bed waiting for him to tire out and go to bed. After five minutes or so of this tantrum, I heard what sounded like breaking glass, followed by the sound of Nick’s footsteps stomping up the stairs, and then of his fist banging on my bedroom door. “ARE YOU AWAKE JEF? I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE! WAKE UP!” Banging, banging on my bedroom door. I got up and opened the bedroom door to Nick–standing there, looking particularly crazed and typically retarded. He lifted his hand and flicked a liquid (which I assumed at the time to be water) in my face, I looked at him and said “we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” at which point I closed and locked the door, and went back and lied down in bed. Nick started screaming like a madman again and banging on the door: “YOU’RE OUT OF MY HOUSE, JEF! OUT! DON’T FUCK WITH ME!” Eventually he shut up, and I fell back asleep.

The next morning I woke up and found dried blood smeared all over my door, drops and puddles in the hallway, downstairs–all over the house, but generally concentrated in the area of my door. Doortwo_1

DoorfourAfter doing some investigation, I eventally realized that Nick had punched out a pane in one of the kitchen cabinets, then had come upstairs and flicked his blood in my face, which had wiped off on my bedsheet (I had a bloody bedsheet). So, right… I was freaked out. You win, Nick, although I wasn’t sure what kind of game he was playing.

Doorthree_1
Nick apparently had to go to the hospital later that night because of the cut on his arm, so he was able to play a sympathy card to his sister (the landlord) and his mom. He skillfully twisted the story around to
make me seem like the bad guy, which is remarkable, but then not so much when you consider the fact that his family seems to be in an amazing amount of denial about his fucked-upedness. I managed to live there for two more months without any further incidents, beyond several tense yet friendly confrontations with Nick in the kitchen.

The story ended as it should–all four tenants (except Nick and his sister) had broken their leases and moved out of the house by the end of the quarter, and I got my entire security deposit back.

Enjoy your hair.

Just a post to point out the obvious new sidebar to the right, the subsequent reposting of all previously posted photo albums on the sidebar to the left, and the addition of an album of photos from Christine’s twisted and remarkably fun New Year’s Absynthe Eve.

Enjoy. Comment. Love. Hate. Enjoy your hair.

It’s Been Raining

      Kimya Dawson -- It's Been Raining

dare to fail

“Most people don’t know what they want or feel. And for everyone, myself included, its very difficult to say what you mean when what you mean is painful. The most difficult thing in the world is to reveal yourself, to express what you have to. . . As an artist, I feel that we must try many things – but above all, we must dare to fail. You must have the courage to be bad – to be willing to risk everything to really express it all.”
John Cassavetes

Today = a good day.

Today = a good day.

I woke early to go to work at ten, but when I got there I found out that I am not eligible for work-study because I received all the loan money I asked for.  Figure that one out.  I am, however, eligible for "institutional work-study" which basically just means that I can’t work for the first two weeks of the quarter.  None of this makes any sense to me, but today it meant that I got to go back to my apartment and relax instead of sitting in the cage for five hours. 

I was up late last night writing the story for the short I’m writing for my screenwriting class–a dark and twisted comedy/satire about 9/11 and sex.  It’s out there, and I was rather worried that the professor wouldn’t take kindly to it.  Well, he loved it–he even used it as an example of what was a good story when discussing some of the other student’s stories.  This made me very happy.

Then I found out that my missing (assumed stolen) bike had been found, no harm done, so I can return the higher-quality but lesser-character replacement I was forced to buy last weekend.  I went over to Adam’s after class to pick it up (he found it) and to help him shoot a video self-portrait for his Directing the Narrative class.  His concept was cool, and I was in a good mood, so shooting it was fun. 

So I’m back on the happy and motivated trolley, my fare of temporal misery and laziness having been paid for the time being. 

The truth

The truth is that I’m making this up as I go. The truth is that I miss everyone, look forward to everything, and ignore the present. The truth is that I need to study harder. The truth is that I drank two glasses of wine last night. The truth is that I miss waking up with someone. The truth is that I know I should be happy, and that this makes my bouts of sadness even more profound. The truth is I am afraid I can’t do this. The truth is America is boring. The truth is my eyes itch this morning. The truth is I would like to call her, but won’t. The truth is I don’t smile enough. The truth is it is seventy degrees and sunny here today. The truth is someone stole my bike last weekend. The truth is I need to crap, take a shower, and eat breakfast.

"Happy Happy Joy"

I post this afternoon only to bid a happy belated 31st birthday to my friend Desiree, because she left a comment on my last post pointing out my oversight.

“Happy Happy Joy”

Unfortunately for Desiree, thirty-one is the new forty-one. Tough break.

(Ahh, and Ryan’s 30th birthday was actually on the 6th, and not on the 7th as previously indicated.)