Jungle Juice Aint No Jungle Lovin'
The past week felt like I was putting my nuts through the wringer. Each day and each hour at the computer left a definite impression in my body. I feel particularly blah, and at one point was so bored with my life that I contemplated an old dream to flee to Hawaii and become a pineapple farmer. Work progresses ad museum on my senior thesis. At last check, I was twenty-two pages in and the end is nowhere in sight. Luckily, I've done enough work that I'm a bit ahead of schedule, but there's much more to finish. This is in addition to all the other papers that need to be done. I hear them calling my name from a stack on my computer case. They whisper obscenities in the night and I have woken up in an aghast daze, with my blanket covering my mouth, chittering to myself that the papers will eat me. Their shadow looms quite ungracefully over my paranoid figure and I have no doubt that they review torturous fantasizes that involve unspeakable acts of mental rape.
Such has been my life for the last few weeks. I dig out paper after paper, and when the weekend comes I exhale long sighs of relief. Thursday evenings now feel better to me than post-coital bliss. Such is the temptation to light up and stretch out after my last Thursday class. I think people find it odd when they see me breathe quickly when the teacher dismisses, and let out plaintatives such as, "Oh yeah. I like it when you finish like that." I have yet to figure out how not to ruin my pants after a particularly good bout...
You can probably figure out that I have increased my drinking intake in order to compensate for the rudeness of my weeks. This has led to some interesting results. Friday morning, I woke up quite hung over, with scrawled numbers all over my sidekick. I immediately went through the numbers and was able to purloin the fact that I some how managed to pick up several different girls. How I did that in my inebriated state remains a mystery, although I have no doubt that booze some how morphs me into some kind of Jewish Don Juan, or at least it does in my imagination. I remain without physical evidence of my evening exploits. This must be a good thing because I have yet to wake up with strange bodies in my bed, and it has been quite some time since I woke up in some stranger's bed. I do recall, however, thinking that I had met my soul mate at the local Pike (Pi Kappa Alpha) house.
The girl had no real redeeming qualities other than the fact that she enjoyed my body and that she called herself weird. I told her that I loved weird girls, and that sometimes weirdness was erotic and quite the turn on. We continued this conversation for a bit, until people left us from disgust and/or envy. Her roommate eventually pulled her disposed form off me. I went home, stumbling and screaming to no one in particular the aesthetic philosophy of Langer. I do believe if an officer had stopped me, I would have given him or her a lecture on the compelling points of expressive symbolism. See, this is what my thesis has done to me. It has turned me into a fount of shit, not like I needed any help in this respect. Once home, I composed some very bad Brautigan-esque love poetry to her beautiful mind and told friend that I didn't really want to fuck the girl, but I did want to make love to her mind. Ah, the drunken Jon contemplates skull fucking, or at least a really good mind-lay.
No, I don't have the poetry. And, even if I had them, I wouldn't let you read 'em.
Last night, after complaining to Rosencratz about how I felt disenfranchised from social norms, I decided to go on a serious bender and then attempt to write while drunk. That was the plan, at least, and it was going well until I found a cachet of vodka (a gallon's worth) and drank most of it. Instead of writing, I found myself sitting a room of brothers, staring at the wall and thinking about nothing.
Vodka. Bad. Not writing. Bad.
I just got asked to go on a road trip, so I’m cutting this entry short. It’s calling, you know.
Such has been my life for the last few weeks. I dig out paper after paper, and when the weekend comes I exhale long sighs of relief. Thursday evenings now feel better to me than post-coital bliss. Such is the temptation to light up and stretch out after my last Thursday class. I think people find it odd when they see me breathe quickly when the teacher dismisses, and let out plaintatives such as, "Oh yeah. I like it when you finish like that." I have yet to figure out how not to ruin my pants after a particularly good bout...
You can probably figure out that I have increased my drinking intake in order to compensate for the rudeness of my weeks. This has led to some interesting results. Friday morning, I woke up quite hung over, with scrawled numbers all over my sidekick. I immediately went through the numbers and was able to purloin the fact that I some how managed to pick up several different girls. How I did that in my inebriated state remains a mystery, although I have no doubt that booze some how morphs me into some kind of Jewish Don Juan, or at least it does in my imagination. I remain without physical evidence of my evening exploits. This must be a good thing because I have yet to wake up with strange bodies in my bed, and it has been quite some time since I woke up in some stranger's bed. I do recall, however, thinking that I had met my soul mate at the local Pike (Pi Kappa Alpha) house.
The girl had no real redeeming qualities other than the fact that she enjoyed my body and that she called herself weird. I told her that I loved weird girls, and that sometimes weirdness was erotic and quite the turn on. We continued this conversation for a bit, until people left us from disgust and/or envy. Her roommate eventually pulled her disposed form off me. I went home, stumbling and screaming to no one in particular the aesthetic philosophy of Langer. I do believe if an officer had stopped me, I would have given him or her a lecture on the compelling points of expressive symbolism. See, this is what my thesis has done to me. It has turned me into a fount of shit, not like I needed any help in this respect. Once home, I composed some very bad Brautigan-esque love poetry to her beautiful mind and told friend that I didn't really want to fuck the girl, but I did want to make love to her mind. Ah, the drunken Jon contemplates skull fucking, or at least a really good mind-lay.
No, I don't have the poetry. And, even if I had them, I wouldn't let you read 'em.
Last night, after complaining to Rosencratz about how I felt disenfranchised from social norms, I decided to go on a serious bender and then attempt to write while drunk. That was the plan, at least, and it was going well until I found a cachet of vodka (a gallon's worth) and drank most of it. Instead of writing, I found myself sitting a room of brothers, staring at the wall and thinking about nothing.
Vodka. Bad. Not writing. Bad.
I just got asked to go on a road trip, so I’m cutting this entry short. It’s calling, you know.
posted by Jon at 6:27 PM
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