This would probably be the approprate entry to comment on how drunk I was at Sloopy’s last night, how obnoxious I most likely was (sorry, guys), or just why was I running around Nick’s front yard sans shirt at about one AM. I gladly would provide reasons for such madness —

Except I don’t remember much of it.

Similar to the bachelor party debacle, I blacked out from the point when we were playing darts to this morning when I awoke in my bed. So what did I miss? Not too sure. There was the no-shirt incident, an attractive little cut on the bridge of my nose that I don’t recall “earning,” and the most priceless thing of all: my mom said she came down last night and found me passed out on the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the wall. Also, watching me walk up the stairs was apparently like the bit in McLintock where a drunken John Wayne attempts, rather unsuccessfully, to do the same. Somehat amazingly I regained enough of my wits to take a shower without drowning, which I’m kinda happy about, as my bed didn’t reek of Sloopy’s and — probably — vomit. So yeah, guess I did throw up again that night … but at least that time I had a good reason to.

The evening was a lot of fun, especially the parts I remember mostly clearly. But it was expensive. Good lords, it was expensive. I blew, like, forty bucks or so on drinks. Thank the gods that this isn’t something I do regularly, or that I’m not an alcoholic like a certain someone I know, otherwise I’d be broke as fuck.

Oh, and thanks to Brandon for taking me down, and an even bigger thanks to Andrew for taking me home, ’cause he certainly got the raw end of that deal.

JAB

Work was annoying today, not necessarily because it was work, but because I throwed up twice. Right now, I’m hoping to not make it thrice. Shortly after noon, I was standing around doing nothing — our modus operandi in the ‘Lab — when a cold sweat engulfed my body. I felt a familiar lurching in my stomach, and made haste to the restroom, nearly bowling over a manager in the process. Then during lunch, I threw up at Wendy’s. Afterwards I went to get a frosty ’cause, y’know, the rest of my spicy chicken sandwich seemed so appealing from that point on. The lady gave it to me for free since she felt pity for me. Man, let me tell you: there is no better food than free pity food. After that, I just felt vaguely nauseous the rest of the day. So what am I getting ready to do, since I’ve felt pukey all day?

I’m going drinking.

It’s Ryan and Laura’s birthday today (they turned 21), so to celebrate we’re going to this complete dive in the Oregon District named Sloopy’s. I’m not driving, so I can get as inebriated as I like. It should be a diverting time, so long as there is no vomiting on my part.

My fingers are crossed.

JAB

I finished a story recently entitled “The Last Echo of Humanity.” It’s a much-improved redo of an older story of mine, one that was called “Rebirth.” Like writing articles for a newspaper, with short stories one has to come up with a strong opening paragraph to grab the reader’s interest, ’cause if that first paragraph is boring, the read will move onto something else. Admittedly, I’m guilty of this sometimes. I think I came up with a pretty nifty intro paragraph (ack — cue the unpleasant flashback to WSU’s basic English classes) for “Last Echo”:

The rum had long-since stopped burning his throat, he idly realized as he took another huge swallow from the bottle, right before he put his fist through the face of the Mona Lisa. The poplar wood shredded his knuckles. He only abstractly felt the throbbing in his hand, filtered as it was by his drunken haze. It only served to make him angrier. He wanted to feel something, anything to break him from the unyielding torpor that he’d been in for the past few millennia — even if that something was just pain.

What do you guys think?

JAB

Oh “Battlestar: Galactica,” why did your second season have to come to an end? My Sundays just aren’t same without your engaging plots, terrific characters, and hot ladies. You will be missed.

Seriously, I am pissed that BSG isn’t coming back till October. Fucking Katee Sackoff, getting herself pregnant and causing annoying delays to my television schedule. I need my fix, man. I need it badly. Well, by the time the third season does roll around, I’ll have bought the second season on DVD and watched it over again. So at least it will be all in fixed in my recent memory. I just rewatched the first season again, and it was fantastic, and yet somehow the second season was even better. With any luck, next season will follow the trend. What keeps the show so fresh, I think, is that the producers aren’t afraid to take the show in unexpected and risky directions…like with what just happened in season two’s last episode. I won’t recount its events here, out of fear of spoiling it for future viewers, but — damn. That shit was out of left field and awesome at the same time.

I’ve heard this complaint leverage elsewhere, but I’ll repeat it here: I wish the show had launched under a different name. For a sci-fi show, it’s incredibly realistic — no Star Trek overemphasis on technology, no aliens. What it is is a fantastic drama, with richly drawn characters and an emphasis to never find the easy “solution” to moral dilemmas. But the fact that it’s called “Battlestar: Galactica” and set in space keeps away those people who generally shun science fiction, yet otherwise my like the show. ‘Course, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I even want those retarded leper monkeys (sorry, mom) to watch my show.

Speaking of attracting new viewers, I hope to convert a few more people into avid viewers by then. I’m letting Andrew borrow the miniseries right now, then I’m hoping to loan it to Sarah and Nate. I think all three of them would like it, and could also become addicts like Nick, Jason, David, and myself. I’m like that creepy-looking guy, dressed in a ratty thrift store coat and a patchy five o’clock shadow, that hangs out at the middle school, trying to peddle my mind-altering “wares” to the unsuspecting kiddies.

So go ahead — have a taste. If you don’t like it, that’s cool. I won’t make you. But I know you’ll be back.

JAB

Should be sleeping, but for some reason I’m too wired. Not sure why, but I’m not complaining. I just sat down in front of the computer twenty minutes ago, opened up a story I’ve been wanting to complete, and finished it. Now that I think about it, this probably isn’t going to help make me sleepy. I’m proud to admit that nothing exhilarates me more that writing a story — especially when I type the word “END.” It’s a sort of high that, sadly, blogging gives me very rarely these days.

It’s been eating at me for some time now. My particular style of blogging is, as Nate puts it, more narrative than anything. I recount certain events, sometimes in a humorous fashion, sometimes not. This isn’t necessarily a bad style — it’s just one I’m getting bored with. I’m a bit of an anachronism when it comes to blogging. Most of the stuff I write about is rather genial in nature; I don’t rant and rave, certainly not to the extent that I used to on my deadjournal. But everyone who knows me in real life knows that I’m sort of a mean person. A bit of an asshole. Sure, I’m a pretty nice guy — I’ll just make fun of and be a dick towards you.

I’m fucking charming, truth be told.

But in my online persona I’d love to be more true to self: be a lot meaner, put the “rant” back in ignorant…

…but…

This leads me to my next point: self-censorship.

I censor myself a whole lot on JBdN, much more than I like to admit. When I’m pissed off or annoyed with something or someone, I tend to not write too much about it, because the chance is that the relevant person(s) might read about it and get upset. Yet it’s in my nature to bottle so many things up, usually without ever talking to someone who’s upset me, so would writing about it be cathartic? I tend to think so, but then is a public forum really appropriate? I’ve written things here before — very small things, mentioned off hand — and had them come back and bite me in the ass in real life. Something along this vein recently happened, which has served to hammer this point home. Let me be clear: I don’t regret writing what I did, but I do regret the ensuing downturn. It does certainly offer food for thought.

Maybe I’ll put it to you, gentle reader, my fellow unwashed masses. Should I be more open in my writing? Let my anger, if it’s there, be more visible? Throw the self-censorship out the window and just write about whatever the fuck I want, consequences be damned? Even if I did, JBdN isn’t going to turn into the Altar of Bitching (that i’ll leave to Nate). Means I might just offer up the occasional rant and, in general, be a little more honest about things happening in my life. Before you answer, bear in mind that one day you (yes, I’m talking to you) might piss me off, and I might heatedly write about it. You, of course, would be allowed to rebut my words in the comments without worry of editorial oversight — but the point is, would you want our hypothetical dirty laundry to be aired for all to see?

I’m not sure what I’ll wind up doing. I could very well read this entry tomorrow, roll my eyes, say, “Jesus Fucking Christ, could I be any more of a girl about this crap?” and then continue on, business as usual. Then there is another possible option. Nate and I were talking Thursday, and the idea of creating a new, private blog was mentioned. I freely admit the idea held some considerable appeal. But I like my blog here, and I don’t want to give up on it.

Well, I’ve whaled on this dead horse enough for one night. I think I’m going to go read for a bit and, maybe, sleep.

JAB

Man, I’m 24 today. I am fucking old.

Today is day three of my four days off of work. I used up a vacation day I need to burn for today, so it’s like I’m still working my usual complement of days. So glad I still have tomorrow off, too.

Sarah and I watched Teenage Catgirls in Heat last night. It wasn’t too bad for a cheesy, low-budget gore and boob fest. One of the male leads was deliciously over the top in everything he did, and the cameraman had the odd tendency to put the camera right in the actor’s face all the time. Probably the best part about the movie was its special features. There was the Troma Intelligence Test (the T.I.T.), which covers a lot of Troma’s films. If you got a question right, you were rewarded with a clip involving some woman’s breasts. If you were wrong: a gory film clip with no boobies. After seeing a preview for Citizen Toxie: The Toxic Avenger IV, Sarah agreed to watch the first Toxie film. It’s right up our alley of cheesy horror films.

Nate and I are doing something tonight, after the Grandparent comes and goes. He’ll buy me dinner, ’cause I’m awesome and it’s my birthday, and then we’ll probably settle down and play Timesplitters for the rest of the night.

I need to hurry my ass up now and go to the Why. I still have to run to Best Buy with my Pop.

JAB

Started and finished my tax returns earlier. I’m happy: I’ll get back over 800 dollars this year between Federal and State. As is usual, performing the archaic calculus for the city tax was the most arduous part. Even with last year’s splayed out on the desk in front of me for a guide, I still nearly fucked up the calculations. Vandalia — which also coordinate Englewood’s taxes — is going to an online filing system next year, so maybe then I won’t need to break out the sextant and slide rule. What really twists the knife is that I never owe or receive money from the city — yet still I have to do it.

Apparently bowling is still a go for tonight. These things, unless I organize them, are almost always a huge disjointed plan of rambling intent, where one never is sure just what is going to happen … kind of like the city tax worksheet. Still, it’s quite fun. Especially when I’ve found my old bowling ball and shoes.

Speaking of, it’s that time.

JAB

(more…)