I know I never use this damn thing anymore, but it’s about time I started again. I obviously need an outlet.
I have been trying to kick and scream my way out of this fucking depression. Now I’m just completely worn out and have nothing to give. I can barely function at school and work. I can barely hold a conversation without turning it into an overly dramatic mess. My grades and relationships have all gone to crap. No matter how aware of this all as I am, I can’t seem to do anything about it. I just watch myself crumble but just sit here stunned.
I got into yet another stupid argument with one of my best friends. She can’t even talk to me these days without me kicking sand into our eyes. I don’t even know how or why I got so bitchy with her. I don’t know how much, if any, of the argument was her fault. All I know is that I’m failing and I can’t stop. I just want to stop.
I’m sorry.

I was sitting here watching Sponge Bob when I realized one of the reasons why I love the show so much. It’s usually just about some retarded sponge with his even more retarded starfish friend and their shenanigans. And the big evil villain, Plankton, has not a goal of world domination. His one and only want in life is to get the secret recipe for Krabby Patties. It’s like Dumb and Dumber meets James Bond…and it all takes place under the sea.
Then my roommate took me out of the bong rotation.

I know. I KNOW! So it’s been a while. Big deal.
I don’t think anyone is reading this site anymore, but just in case, let me catch you up to speed…
Life is pain.
That’s about all you’ve missed.
Okay, so I’m being a little overly dramatic. Being a gay Hispanic, I do believe I am occasionally allowed to throw myself of an emotional cliff for no good reason. You hate me, don’t you?
Seriously, it’s been so long since I’ve written anything on here; I don’t remember what has happened between now and then. So let me just give you the highlights as I cross my fingers in hopes that I don’t make things up but think they’re real, as I tend to do.
I made it through last semester without any casualties. I actually pulled out with some decent grades despite my burning desire to flee into the woods in order to work on my manifesto.
I quit my job as an RA much to my boss’s dismay. I told him I had a chemical imbalance and everyday I was locked up in my apartment on duty only accelerated my downward spiral. I was about 90% exaggerating.
I went home for break and caught up with as few people as possible. I finally got over Dusty falling off the face of the Earth. I think it helped that I met his new boyfriend. I just feel better knowing that Mike is a good person. At least he seems to be. If not, then I give him mad respect for being such a talented actor.
A bunch of us homos went to RIBCO to see the Brat Pack, the best 80’s cover-band ever. I don’t remember much of that night, but I guess I let Glitter Boy pinch my nipples and later danced with a feather boa and tiara. Drinking is perfectly healthy as long as you tell Moderation to go fuck himself right before you punch him in the ear…then you go sleep with his 16 year old brother…at least you think you slept with him because you woke up naked curled up behind him with your penis still snugly tucked away between his butt cheeks which is even more confusing considering you’re a total bottom…but you really don’t have time to think about it since you’re about ready to throw up the oranges you accidentally ate while drinking your Blue Moon. What?
I came back to school, scored an undergrad assistantship doing PR for the school’s Coal Research Center, been studying Japanese like I have nothing else to do with my time, been stressed to no end with everything life has to throw at me, and alienating myself from all of my friends (hence the free time I have to type this up). So, all in all, things are just as shitty as ever. Oh, yeah, and I can’t get laid to save my life.
In the words of the Bloodhound gang, “No reason to live…just the way we like it.”

I can’t stand being an R.A. much longer. God, I hate babysitting and being confined to my room. If all goes as planned, I’ll be putting in my notice in a couple weeks, finish up the semester, and get the fuck out.
The problem is I don’t know what will happen beyond that point. Originally, I was supposed to move in with my buddy Jon and his pseudo friend Zac. Of course, nothing could be so simple in my life. It seems the open bedroom was inhabited by many cats before my once potential roommates moved in. It also seems that they spent much of their time in that room, sort of. They weren’t so much in the room as they were behind the wall. Yeah. Somehow they worked a hole in the wall and kicked it old school out inside the wall of the bedroom. I’m not exactly sure if their essence has been capture in the carpet or behind the wall, but it is strong and without mercy. It fucking stinks. It smells like cats.
Ignoring the fact of the smell, there is no way in hell I can live in that room. I am very much allergic to cats and can’t stand to be in that room for more than five minutes. Jon seems to think that Fabreeze would solve everything. I’m trying to explain to him that Fabreeze will merely temporarily get rid of the odor and I would still be allergic to whatever is in the air. Someone needs to shampoo the hell out of that carpet, wash down the walls, and get inside that wall and douche it out with a fire hose. Or, one of them can move into that room and give me theirs. Of course, they don’t want do live in a smelly-cat room as much as I but they are insistent that it would be just fine for me. And god knows they can’t call their landlord because then they would have to deal with an actual person. I guess if someone is not pixilated on their computer monitors they just don’t know how to deal.
So, now that I can’t live with Jon, I have the option of living with my friend Sachiko. Sachiko have an alright apartment very close to campus with a washer and dryer. Sachiko also has rent that is about twice as much as Jon’s. So, if I move in with her, I’ll have just enough money left over to starve but I’ll be able to practice my Japanese. Even trade? Not quite.
I’m thinking about looking though the paper for sub leasers. Of course, then I’d have no idea that the person(s) I’d be living with are like until its way too late. What are the odds of finding a big house filled with bi-curious go-go boys with low self esteem and an appreciation for overweight Hispanics? Right. I’m much more likely to end up signing a lease with some guy on a 2 week crystal binge that talks to the fiery seahorses flying around his head. And you know I wouldn’t be lucky enough to have him O.D. early in the semester. He’d end up living but with just enough brain damage to piss me off but not enough to put him away.
I could always just keep my R.A. job. Hopefully my first suicide attempt would be successful. I don’t know if I could bring myself to shooting a bullet in my mouth a 2nd time.
So, with these options in mind, I am trying to decide between allergies, no money, Russian Roulette, and suicide. If there are any of those go-go boys as mentioned above in the great Carbondale area looking for a good roommate, please send me an email. Please.
Gravityalwayswins120@hotmail.com
Gravityalwayswins120@hotmail.com
Gravityalwayswins120@hotmail.com

Comedy Central recently aired its first original movie Porn and Chicken. A name like that is bound to arouse some sort of reaction. But how many people were taken back to their early childhood upon hearing such a name? I’m guessing just one—me.
I still remember when I was about 3 or 4 years old, my father would come home late from his bar. I would be upstairs in the bedroom I shared with my brother when I could hear the backdoor fly open. In would walk my father engulfed in the aroma of cigarettes, booze, and strippers. Under his arm was a box of fried chicken that he somehow acquired through the course of his evening. I would run down the stairs with the enthusiasm and bliss of a crazed Beatles that swore George looked at her for 3 seconds before she passed out. You’d think I had never seen the man before…or smelled fried chicken.
My sister and brother weren’t allowed to join the party. After all, they had school the next day and weren’t loved nearly as much as I. He called me his “lamb” and let me get away with just about anything. Dad and I would sit in the living room, hands greasy, as we watched Escapade, a late 1970’s early 80’s pornographic cable channel.
Eventually we’d be all tuckered out from the feast and fornication. He would carry me to the bedroom and I’d pass out between him and my mother. I would wake up in my own bed the next morning and my father would already be gone for the day. It didn’t’ matter though because, damn, that was some good chicken.
I could start on how our relationship deteriorated over the years. I could talk about how my love and hate for him seemed to swarm around chaotically like a swarm of ill-tempered bees, But not today.
Today is my father’s birthday. Instead of focusing on all of the negativity, I’d like to think of how he fucked me up in a good way. How many kids get to hang out with their drunken strip-club-owning father at 2a.m. while eating chicken and watching porn? How many kids get to hang out with people named Nikki Nockers (I believe she spelled it without a ‘K’) and Lotta Topp? Early on, I was given a perspective of which other kids were not privy.
Happy birthday, dad. My perception is skewed and I am eternally grateful.

I should probably clarify the comment I made yesterday concerning my sexual frustrations leading me to become a sniper in Southern Illinois. You see, it was a joke. In fact, I hate guns…but I do want to put my dick in something. I don’t need some FBI agent knocking at my door questioning me about my intentions. That is, of course, unless he’s hot. Then by all means, stop by. The door will be open and I’ll be bathed and ready.

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Happy holidays to everyone.
No, I’m not early. We are now between my two favorite holidays: Daylight Savings Time and Halloween. I’m sure most people wouldn’t consider DST to be a holiday. I ask those people what better time of the year is there than when you get an extra hour of sleep? The only thing I can think of is when I get my student aid check.
I’m usually at my pinnacle of excitement (which still borders on legal death) around these days. I’m usually digging through my junk drawer for black lipstick and nail polish as my friends are scurrying to find the perfect-enough costume for our night out. I sit in my room and fantasize about some sexed out semi-shy guy that does a couple shots in order to loosen up enough to come over and grab my leash and dance with me at “the bar.” Dusty’s busy trying to figure out which cock-ring will accentuate his genitals better through his costume (last year, when he was dressed up like a baby, all you could see was bulge when he walked into the room). Eric (a.k.a. Glitter-boy) is attaching something ultra-queer to his costume—feathers, glitter, glittery feathers, feathery glitter, directions back to his place at the end of the night. Natalie is freaking out because she can’t scrape up enough money for the perfect hosiery AND still have enough to drink herself into Thanksgiving (with me right by her side of course).
When the night finally arrives, we get together for a couple heavily loaded drinks and photographs so we can look back someday and laugh at how tragically fabulous we all think we are that night. Then we head out for the longest night of drinking since “the bar” is open an extra hour on account of DST. Eric disappears as soon as we get there to flirt with god knows whom or what. The rest of us get drunk…fast. Dusty gets to that point where he can barely contain his cock-ring and disappears behind the curtain of the stage/dance floor with whomever this year’s guy is that insists on twisting a knife in his own heart over my “non-intimate life-partner.” Natalie’s making out with gay men and women and fishing for compliments on her hair and cleavage. I myself am off not taking to anyone that I don’t already know or somehow getting injured from either falling in a drunken stupor or being whipped by Joe-D dressed up as my dominatrix.
By the end of the night, everyone has had their tongue in someone else’s mouth except for me. Good times.
But those were the days. Since then, Natalie moved to MN since she was over being a shit-starter in the Quad Cities and figured she’d start over in the Twin Cities’ burbs. Glitter-boy moved to WI to spread his pixie magic and well-wishes to America’s dairy state…and to utilize his gift of being judgmental (which comes free with every purchase of a homosexual lifestyle) as a model scout. Joe-D moved to Florida with some psycho-dyke that ended up leaving her high and dry (but she’s a fighter and made it all work out like you knew she would). I, of course, moved to the anus of Illinois for school in a town that closes down the bars and liquor stores and doesn’t leave the bars open the extra hour just because some innocent kids in the past decided to start fires and flip cars.
Dusty is still back in the QC putting up with himself. He found a new boyfriend from what I’m told and has therefore disappeared off the face of the planet…or he’s just forgetting how to hit the reply button on his email just to say hi.
He’s an interesting fellow. Two months ago, I would have told you he’s one of my soul-brothers and we’d bugging each other for the rest of our unnatural lives. But now I’m afraid one of my worst fears will become fact. Dusty has had some very close friends in the past but pretty much lost all contact with them just because he’s lazy. Natalie, Becky, some other college friends, and now probably me.
I really hope I’m wrong. I can’t stand to have another Bret situation. You see, I used to have a best friend named Bret. We really bonded on how much we hate people. Misanthrope is a potent common denominator. But he found Bethany. Over night, he stopped hanging out. He wanted to be with his new fascination. I understood. Then I was invited to hang out with them at her apartment but they would not be going out. I understood. Then they wanted to have some alone time. I understood. Then he stopped returning calls. I didn’t understand. Then he became Mr. Wilson. I said, “fuck that.” Dusty isn’t to that point yet. After a couple more months and some unreturned phone calls I’ll be happy to record the time of death.
Anyway, now I’m in Carbondale and my “family” is scattered in more ways than one. I’m making a new family: Jon (my hetero-life mate), Katie(Chinese Thong Teaser), Crystal(my psuedo-girlfriend), Heidi(makes my teeth chatter), Sarah(red on the head...fire in the bed), and Jen(Moto), and Reagan(sure, she moved away too but she still counts because she's da man). I can’t wait to see how tragically fabulous we all think we are. (I guess it’s a good thing they’ve never seen me in my giant afro wig since I can’t afford to buy anything new this year.) But even though I’m pretty excited to spend my first Autumn Christmas with them, I fear that this will be the beginning of a new chapter that I wasn’t quite ready to start yet.

I don't know what's going on but there seems too be Japanese characters throughout this page as I enter this post. I think maybe some of the Japanese stuff I've encountered on the net have mixed with Explorer??? At any rate, if you find Japanese characters on the page, I am truly sorry.
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I swear to god, if I don't stick my dick in something soon there will be a new sniper situation in Southern Illinois.
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I'm sure there's an idea in my head somewhere. Something is in here waiting to get out. Something wants to be expressed. I just can't find it. So, I'll try a bit of that stream of consciousness writing and see what happens. Actually, right now it may be more of a creek of consciousness (or “crick” of consciousness for those of my Green Rock, IL readers). Maybe it’s more of a dribble of consciousness. Whichever. Let’s see what happens.

I must look utterly ridiculous right now. I’m sitting in one of SIUC’s many computer labs. I would actually look somewhat fetching today…nice vintage button-down dress shirt born in the 80’s and nicely persevered in my father’s closet, boot-cut jeans that my friend Misty bought for me from Structure as a Christmas gift simply because my ass looks fabulous in them, some casually dressy black Sketchers beat up enough to go with the rest but not tattered enough to look like I’m a stereotypical Mexican…the one of fifty cousins that live in a van and was given the one and only pair of shoes for the day so I could score some government cheese and weed. Given all that, I’m a sexy bitch right now.

It’s the accessories that are tilting the scales from “good idea” towards “huh?” Let’s start with my head, shall we? I have 2 of the biggest zits fighting the urge to sneeze all over anyone within one hundred feet directly ahead of me. And they couldn’t do me the favor of staying in close proximity to each other as if they’re being quarantined from the rest of my face. Oh, no. One standing tall and proud in the middle of my greasy forehead while the other decided set up camp centered in the dent of my chin. You know all those stupid dots Princess Amendallia (or however you spell her name) from Episodes I & II has down the center of her face? That’s me minus the rest of the kabuki makeup and tassels hanging from my hair.

And over my shiny t-zone is placed my specs. My far-sighted ass can’t read anything directly in front of my oily face. Without my glasses, I have to hold out my book or place my monitor far enough away from my face that my arm can barely reach. I should just pop these pimples and place the computer monitor somewhere around where the zit-snot splats.

Granted, the glasses do not add much stress to the backs of my ears, but there is little room for much else back there. Oh, but that doesn’t stop me. I have invested in some of those “wrap around the back of your head and attach behind your ears” headsets in order to avoid unsightly “headset head.” And for those of you that know me, I have a huge fuck-off head. So the plastic that runs behind my head from ear to ear is hardly long enough to accommodate cranial blood flow. This tends to make my ears pull out from my head in order to wave hello. With the complexion and the ears, I could pass as Alfredo E. Newman. Why don’t I just take the headphones off? I’d rather look like this than listen to the misogynistic banter the two date-rapists next to me insist on having. And besides, I figured if my ears are going to be busy I’d rather it be from listening to music than catching the attention of all of the cognitively challenged college kids with my shiny earrings. Deer in headlights, they are. And my head is shiny enough. Hello! Mexian.

Then there are my keys. You may be wondering how keys would throw of my once potentially Rico Suave ensemble. For any of you kids that have spend a minute or two around a college campus in the last couple years, you’d know that we are required to wear our keys on our belt loops as the silent and unwritten mandate of fashion deems. Pacey must have done it on an episode of Dawson’s Creek of Consciousness or something. My key chain doesn’t just sport keys as god intended but also features my Kroger savings card and a small replica of a traditional Korean mask that my “students” gave me this summer before they left for their mother country. And the keychain itself is some sort of metallic robo-blue large circle just big enough to make me ask, “Is that a cock-ring?” the first time I saw it my The Tuxedo gift/sample box the school bookstore handed out at the beginning of the semester (along with samples of Combos, Nyquil and over-the-counter sleeping pills. Party). Why don’t I just put them in my pocket? The ass-jean’s pockets can accommodate only so much. I’d rather use them to the full ass-flattering potential.

Then there’s my jacket. I’m sporting a comfortable gray zip-up hooded sweatshirt with fuzzy lining on the inside. I’ve had this number since the sixth grade. (One should be flattered that they can fit into something from junior high after so many years. I was a fat kid then and I’m a fat kid now.) The holes have started taking their toll on the cuffs, around the zipper, in and about the pockets. And I’m guessing at some point I stretched out the waist are and figured the baggy-look would help hide the spare tire yard.
Thankfully, I was running late today and did not have time to slip on all 47 rings I seem to be wearing lately. I always complain about having a lack of my gay identity but I think I just realize where I put it…on my fingers.

But regardless of how mismatched I appear today, there is one fact that keeps me going by holding strong. The guy sitting next to me smells like B.O. and curry. He stinks. He stinks. I may look like that geek girl in your kindergarten class, but I’m not the smelly kid. Apu or Jaldkfjkfajofjaldfjllisu (I think that’s how you spell that name) is my bitter sweet savior. I want to offer him chickens and burn incense in his honor…and to mask the B.O./curry combo.

My dribble would like to go on but I do have to attend my psych class. Today we’re discussing sexual expressions of the mentally retarded. I wish I was making that up.