Happy turkey day. I'm so fucking hungover right now that I'm pretty sure the sight of thanksgiving dinner might make me puke all over grandma.

If I did something silly like tell you that I was leaving to go to the diner... let you wait in the parking lot... and then just forgot to come out and meet you I truly apologize. Please understand that the combination of Soco and lime, countless Bud Lights, and the Coors Light 40 oz. that I drank and seeing people that I otherwise would've thought dead was just a bit too much for my little head to handle. I'm pretty sure that I remember falsely telling Kelly Henry that that she was one of the coolest people that I'd ever met and sending shots over to a girl with braces just because I thought it'd be funny to send shots over to a girl with braces... ? *

Jersey has its faults, that's for damn sure... but from where I'm sitting, facing the "where am I going to start my life?" decision... I don't think there'd be any other place I'd rather do it. While that might not happen, I enjoy knowing that if it did I'd be among good people. --

I know for sure that when the second hand on my clock reaches the number nine it begins ticking and continues doing so until it comes around to the number three. I'm not quite sure why my clock only ticks while the second hand is passing through the top-half of my clock... but I never noticed it before this weekend.

I know for sure that the glowing stars that the previous occupant of my bedroom stuck to the ceiling above my bed can be blindingly bright at 4AM. Bright enough to grab ahold of your attention while they laugh at you for wishing to be anything but conscious. Before this weekend, they've never kept me up or laughed at me before.

I know for sure that the busses stop rolling through the Mass Ave station at around 2:45AM and that they start up again at 6AM, and while I might have known that previously, I never noticed this from my bedroom before this weekend.

I know for sure that once I took away the pictures I couldn't stand to keep on my walls that there is an overwhelming amount of white in my bedroom. And as the moonlight dances through the tree branches waving in the wind ghastly images can haunt me on those white walls all night. I was never haunted by anything in my bedroom before.

What I don't know is how two people can be walking down the street and spot a newlywed couple with an infant, prompting one of you to grab ahold of the other's arm so tight and stare lovingly into the other's eyes... and only two days later that same person that grabbed the other's arm be able rationalize that the two cannot be together at this juncture in their lives.

What I don't know is how someone can go from spending months praising the fact that you were older and more mature than other people they've dated, and then turn that very same thing into being a reason that they can't be with you.

What I don't know is how I let my guard down enough to let myself feel this way. To let someone else's decisions render me feeling helpless. I've spent my whole life laughing at the helpless and now I can't stand the site of myself for having joined their ranks.

I feel like I know so much about the unimportant things and don't know a goddamn thing about what's important. I feel like so much of what I've believed in was a dream, and now that I've woken up I'm facing the most painful of realities. I know what my mistakes are. I'd wear them on my sleeve for all to see if I thought it'd help. But to feel like there's no such thing as forgiveness or a chance to change in life has left me feeling more dissapointed than I've ever thought possible. --

I'm a computer.

Verizon has inexplicably decided to cancel my DSL service at home. Well, that's what technical support said... although they didn't know why. The sales department said that my account information is just fine.. and that we should be receiving normal service. A meeting of the minds' of the sales and technical support departments also could not come to a conclusion, so they both decided to transfer me to the retention department... who couldn't for the life of them figure out what the fuck these two idiots were talking about. Before the conference call got any larger... we decided that the only way to get back online is to cancel my service, which takes three days. And then sing up for service again.. which takes 7-10 business days. With Thanksgiving next week I'll be lucky if I'm online by fucking Christmas.

At least they're refunding every dime I've paid them since September and are giving me a free month free once our service kicks back in.

S'all good, though. I fucking hate instant messenger anyway.. and if it weren't one of the only way to communicate with folks back in Jersey I probably would've trashed it awhile ago. I guess the only drawback is not being able read the Tard Blog and GI Joe skits over at boredatwork.com that everyone's been talking about. Oh well. --

Ahhh... clean undies.

I own 32 pairs of underwear. That means that I can go 32 days without doing laundry, unless I take part in any physical activities that require an undies change. Soccer season is over, however, and I've reverted back to being a lazy sonuvabitch that sits in front of a screen doing his best to earn miniscule paychecks, so I'm pretty much working on the one pair per day method. As I've mentioned more times than anyone gives a damn about on this website, I'm busy. Sometimes too busy to do laundry. In the past, my extensive underwear selection has insured that I'd be able to continue wearing the best of my best boxer shorts without running out and taking to the reserves. The reserves, my friends, are the old pairs of boxers that should've been retired years ago. Some have holes in completely ridiculous places while others offer absolutely nothing in the form of waist elasticity, which means that unless they're pulled over my pants and clamped with a belt, they will fall down way farther than is comfortable. While never preferred, at least the reserves offer me the security that I need to get my ass to the laundra-mat. Apparently I've become too busy to do even that, however, because ther reserves are completely gone. That includes the waist-band-less pair that I bought in 8th grade as well as the infamous "Marc Noll's Bar Mitzvah" pair that don't quite keep the boys under control, if you know what I mean.

That's it. I'm out. Done. And you know what? I have no time to get the laundra-mat this afternoon, either. So folks, if you see me walking down the street today and decide to talk to me... do it knowing that you're talking to a kid who is most definitely wearing yesterday' underwear.

My mom would not be proud. --

I'm in one of those "I haven't heard anything new in awhile" musical ruts that I get into from time to time and it's a bit frustrating. There has been one shining exception, though. Whenever I am most frustrated I've been reaching for my copy of My Bloody Valentine's Loveless. I suppose all of this Kevin Shields / 'Lost In Translation' chit-chat is what got me thinking about MBV again. And I'm ok with that. It's been like stumbling upon a photograph of a forgotten event and suddenly being able to remember an insane amount of detail that would've otherwise slipped away. It might seem strange to liken a record to this kind of feeling... but if there's any record that challenges the mind's ability to separate senses, it's Loveless. Anyone with a keen ear should be able to fucking SEE and SMELL this album while listening to it. If not, I'm terribly sorry.

I've been reaching, to a lesser extent, for Isn't Anything also, which is enjoyable... mostly just the final third of the album, though.

I've asked Mr JK of egofamine fame to assemble a 14 track mix of the best songs on the new Speakerboxxx and The Love Below album(s) by Outkast. Once assembled I'm hoping that maybe I'll have something else to listen to. Until then, it's back to late 80's and early 90's for my ears. *

On a different note, I had a dream last night that I assembled a band to play a Screeching Weasel tribute show. I've thought about doing this as a one-time gig for Plow United, but never Screeching Weasel. I certainly enjoy entertaining both of these ideas... and wouldn't be surprised if I try to have them play out if I ever move back to Jersey near the people that I know would be willing to help out. In case you're interested the first three songs we played in the tribute show were the cover version of "I Think We're Alone Now", "Kamala's Too Nice" (which we changed to "Samantha's Too Nice" even though I don't know anyone named Samantha), and "What We Hate." I'm not quite sure what the rest of the setlist consisted of... but I remember knowing that it was all songs off of the albums before How To Make Enemies and Irritate People and B-Sides and that we closed the show with "My Brain Hurts." Who knows... maybe someday? --

From the ages of three to about thirteen there was no individual on this planet more important to me than Don Mattingly. Regardless of how silly it is to worship someone that you've only seen on television or from about one-hundred yards away while sitting in the nosebleed section at Yankee Stadium, something about Donnie Baseball struck me at a young age and has continued to stay with me all these years. Even in the darkest times, when my heroes were more likely to be found in the depths of a downward spiral or mindlessly ordering the masses to rip the system!, I kept my Don Mattingly bookshelf intact, complete with every Topps card and tons of other memorabilia. I'm very happy to have Don Mattingly coming back to the New York Yankees. I couldn't care less about the people who think it's a PR move aimed at making people forget the past few weeks. I think it's good for New York and I think it's good for baseball. Now... good god-damn, can we finally get this man a ring boys? *

Today on the orange line, while sandwiched in between a woman reading "A Chance on Lovin' You" by Eboni Snoe and a woman that looked a lot like a girl present in the first internet pornography photograph I ever saw, I reached my newest peak of 'wanting to move out of the city-ness'. I have only three pairs of clean underwear left and pray that I can find an hour sometime before I run out to actually do laundry. My pantry is completely empty because going to the supermarket requires about a week of pre-planning and schedule shifting that I just can't get a handle on. Between breakfast, lunch, and dinner I blow at least $25 a day and don't get anything better than fast-food and bagels for it. On a rare case I'll live it up with Thai Food from Pad Thai on Boylston, which is the good Thai equivalent of Boston Market compared to your grandmother's mashed potatoes. Sheesh, it's time I got back to the good life.... (less than 6 months and counting) *

Taking a look at this list of most expensive colleges makes me sick. Notice all of those locations? Why the hell couldn't I have been born in the midwest? Or the south? Or Antarctica? For fucks sake why is everything so goddamn expensive here? --