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Carole King "It's Too Late" |
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DJ, I am so tired right now and so completely lost in all the assignments and tests going up in this bitch that I am in the computer lab about it. Who knew I was so drastic? It's Thursday night (no classes on Friday's of course. Lick my nine, world), and therefore I don't have much of a need to feel under the gun. My roomie Daryl, who is such a sweet, awesome guy in case I didn't mention that yet, has his girlfriend over tonight, so I'm kind of avoiding the dorm room on their behalf. I'm kind of aghast at how much shit has gone down since the last DJ update. In my defense, it was impossible to update at any other time... shit had been flying left and right lately in terms of schoolwork. And I know I have a lot of stuff still left to do, and frankly, a "list" entry may soon be upon us. The most heart-warming type of entry to be sure. But anyway, although it'll be a bitch to scrape together everything that's happened in the past week, I will prevail, like a pissed drag queen on the catwalk of life. With just a few more sequins.
Of course my trip back to Lemont went down last weekend. In retrospect, it really was all I wanted it to be... refreshing, boring, social, everything. Still annoys me that Lemont pretends it has the ability to "move on without Louis" and have all these new kids run around like they run the place. The day any of them start working at Baskin Robbins, I'm setting the bridge on fire. Try getting into Lemont now, Mrs. Ercoli. Anyway, I got home Thursday night after a giddy but eventually sedated ride home with my mom and Lauren. Glo was in peak form, thankfully, and we joked and joked all the way to a Wendy's in the middle of Give-a-Shit, Illinois. That night, I reacquainted myself with the family, showed off my leather coat from Buckle that the masses (no one) were dying to see in person, and Greg gave me a giant hug. It was fucking awesome. I did have to give myself a driving tour of Lemont, of course, because it's so hard for me to remember where everything is. So Laser got his big hug and finally got to play Liz Phair's new album in his own speakers. He was skeptical. Late into Thursday night, PT called my cell phone as I was watching Ryan Cabrera be sensitive on MTV... so before long I booked it to PT's. Everything was the same as it usually was, minus the HOARDS OF HALLOWEEN DECORATIONS in his basement. Witches, cobwebs, fucking everything. I about had to fucking remove a skeleton from a couch so I could sit there and get a handjob. I did not come home to do hard labor. Weirdly enough, although nothing spectacular went down, I decided then that I would soon tell PT I was gay. Sunday night once I was back at school, I made the call with Lauren sitting next to me. Although at first I couldn't believe the words that were coming out of mouth ("Well, I'm not attracted to girls... but I'm not attracted to you either.), I soon really believed what I was saying. It was so about time to cut the cord. I wanted to sever whatever the hell we had going because I wanted to cut off any sort of opportunity for me to get back to him. In other words, I wanted to shut off any chance of hooking up again because I know eventually it won't seem like a lame idea to me (when I'm horny and bored... a not un-frequent occurrence). PT's response wasn't actually too alarmed... something more like, "Oh. Well... I don't know, I thought we were just friends." I don't know about that definition of "friends." I don't think I ask Sarah Geoghegan for anal sex that much. {T also told me he'd call me back, and he didn't... and he also blocked me online for the 100th time. To make it a centennial. It's commemorative that way. But anyway, PT bullshit is over, and even if it was entertaining to yarn about, it wasn't doing me much in the way of keeping me looking towards more realistic relationships. And those better be on the way... not that I'm hostile.
Friday was a schizophrenic day of visiting Chipain's, LHS, and eventually hanging out with Sarah and Kimmie, my princesses acting as U.N. Goodies ambassadors to Chicago. Chipain's was a laugh, especially when I talked to Jessica on her break to hear the trashiest life story of all time. Not only was there a trailer and a babydaddy, but there was at least one pointless bisexual hook-up and an ex who lives in Indiana. An appearance on Cops was all that was missing. And then, because I get this idea it will be fun, I go to LHS. Brace yourself: it was fucking boring. There was nothing to do, and everyone was in class. I did get to visit Joanie Hamburger, and she's always nice to shoot the shit with... and if I'm not mistaken she mentioned to her assistant that I went to "Iowa State". Joan, no one in their right mind goes to Iowa State. It is basically fictional. I told myself I wasn't going to talk to Mr. Clark because I'm not into that whole sleazy-asshole-insincere-pompous-has-a-midget-wife thing. I meant to just peek my head in and say hi, but oh no, Clark had a student teacher in the room, so of course he very-journalistically shook my hand and sat and talked with me for twenty minutes. Within that time I certainly had the capacity to plan an escape route through the roof, but I was wooed by Clark's hammy schmoozing and so I (and humanity) lost. Checked in with Ercoli too. She seems alright... and I saw a bunch of drama kids who promptly trashed to me a play cast member they knew. Too bad they didn't know I already had the dirt and was decidedly a silently contemptuous hater about their shit. I turned around after talking to them, walked down the hall, and as I turned the corner, I nearly collided with Joe. I said "Hi" and he said "hi" and that was the extent of our cordial not-stabbing-each-other. Dropped by Target and bought a new backpack, and then eventually I went out with Sarah and Kimmie, who graciously flocked down to L-town for my sake. Call us Paris Hilton: we went to Meijer, followed by Steak N Shake, followed by a grand tour of Lemont. Also, it was seriously one of my favorite nights of the year. Maybe it was that none of us expected to be hanging out that night, but it was such a spontaneous, suburbia-abounding dishfest and cliquefest. We bitched (OH we bitched), and we all got to have lush turtle milkshakes. MILKSHAKES, you guys. Only a matter of time before Thanksgiving break, the Panera rolls out like Ludacris, and we're all hitting the club. Cannot. even. wait.
Saturday was just as frantic, but this time the day's festivities began with a six hour work schedule at Chipain's (starting fresh at 6:45 a.m.! Happy vacation, Louis! You sick son of a bitch!). Not too many interesting people were working... there was Hes, and she's nice, but it's not the same without Jena Simone or Karen or Jessica. Peter Chipain luckily had some time on his hands, so I was thankfully graced by his Jewish-looking eagle face again. I wonder if he knows his son is probably still a cokehead and X freak. Half-exhausted, I hung out with Elyse after work, and she had this dancing new puppy Riley. Riley gives me soft kisses, tiny bites, and a sentimental erection. Who could ask for more in an animal? Elyse kept me up to snuff on the hometown crew hi-jinks, but after that I hung at home for awhile and napped in my fave sleepwear. I bet my cousin Tiffany didn't know when she bought me blue-and-red Tommy pants in sixth grade that I would still be sporting them in my sophomore year of college early and often. With a grin everytime, babe. But oh does it get any better than equpping myself with my Chevy Ass-tro, picking up Rachel "Gooseberry" Fields and Lauren "Horny Laurny" Neybert for a splendid evening of Chili's, Baskin Robbin's, and Aladdin. Rachel had pulled this bullshit where she went to the high school band state performance and supposedly "had a pretty good time." Nice deception, asshole. I once again abandoned by Chicken Crispers for the Fajita Pita... which so far hasn't been a worthwhile journey. Fajita Pitas are impossible to eat, about 500% boring pita, and also not disgustingly greasy enough to be loved. The girls and I hung out till like 2:30... and our showing of Aladdin certainly taught that nay-sayer Rachel what was up concering "A Whole New World", the greatest achievement by any man of any time period ever. But sigh. The trio of trip-hop had to depart... and Sunday, Lauren's dad (the fresh new grandparent of a baby girl) whisked us back to Iowa on Sunday. Sunday happened to be the fucking weirdest day ever... not only did I realize I hadn't done any of my homework, but Daryl moved in, the PT phone call went down, and the AIM conversation from my last entry happened. All before I was even re-situated.
Scott (of June 2005 fame) messaged me earlier this week. Long story short, he treated me to a Scott-patented blowjob. It's his craft. Who am I to hinder a craftsman? And also, Kiki apparoached me today to tell me she won free tickets to a ritzy-ass dinner at The Cottage, and she asked me if I wanted to go! I fucking passed up a study session for my Tech and Society exam for the thing. I got dressed up in my best way-too-big dress shirt, and Kiki sexed herself up as well... and we trotted through the rain into the Cottage, where we were surrounded by a shitload of stuffy old people. Quelle surprise. We were forced to sit at a table with about five of them, and they were so full of typical rich people banalities that about vomited my squash garlic soup at them. Quoth the panel of old farts upon eating the starter salad: "Mm. Wonderful." "Delicious." "It's heavenly." HEAVENLY. WHO SAYS "HEAVENLY"? Jeffrey from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air doesn't fucking say "heavenly". It is purposely riche atmosphere like this that really brings out my worst sense of humor. One of the men mentioned in sophisticated smalltalk form, "There's just less... buzz in Iowa City during the summer." I about replied, "There's also less rape." I didn't though, because I didn't want the old woman to my left to accidentally strangle herself with her own thousand dollar scarf. After a salad, squash soup, a stuffed portabello mushroom, some fake caramel tart shit, and a keynote speaker who mysteriously thought I gave a shit that he wrote a book, Kiki and I departed with a whole list of shit to dish. Priceless, priceless. Post-that, I went running with Lauren in sweatsuit gear, and we eventually did an abs and leg workout to Denise Austin, who will soon become the bane of my existence with her flat stomach and encouraging words of anorexia: "Stretch that leg! You look so good! Nice and thin! Have a laxative!" Lauren and I have a tendency to celebrate whenever we do anything, so we went to Dairy Queen afterwards. The grueling workout was complete. And covered in hot fudge.
Madonna's new single "Hung Up" has dominated my life. I hear it every time I log into her website, and although I don't think it's particularly... groundbreaking, it certainly is a lot of fun. I love it, actually... so good for Madonna. She could use anything after the parade of seriousness that was "American Life". Her new tour documentary debuts tomorrow on MTV... fuck you, plans-to-go-out! I probably wouldn't have gone out anyway because of the Tech & Society test I need to cram for, the paper outline I have for Theatre, and the interview I need to set up with Brad Little, who plays the phanton in The Phantom of the Opera on tour. Jesus Christ, that's like an actual person people might have heard of. Not that I have. I missed the opportunity to interview either Hal Sparks or D.L. Hughley... they're rolling into Cedar Rapids soon, and those jobs got dealt out to the people who could reply in email to my editor Meghan the quickest. Guess Anna Wiegenstein has a quicker email-reflex than I do. Boo to fuckers.
It's also 3:37 a.m. Help me, God. Now I still need to take a shower and manage to sneak back into my room without waking Daryl and his girlfriend. By this time they've probably got all that 69ing out of their systems. Yeah. Anyway, I need to go, I love you guys tooooo death, and you know it. We're over halfway done with the semester, so let's celebrate by hating my crush, who apparently is allergic to responding to my one nice facebook message or acknowledging me at all. All I'm saying is if you found his home address and sent severed limbs to his family, I probably would sleep okay about it. Check you guys later, strike that growin'-up pose.
Your hip-hopera phantom, xoxo,
Louis.
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