The Good Word of Sprout

Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Monday, June 28, 2004

Unwanted Results

Today I felt very anxious. This third day anxiety comes after drinking one night and staying drunk the entire next day. This isn't the first time it has happened, nor will be the last, but it seems to defy logic. Since I pass out fairly early from the day-drunk (and usually eat well), I would expect to feel somewhat normal upon waking up the next morning (never the case). I feel nauseous. This nausea isn't like the throwing up variety. It seems more psychological than physical. It is the anti-euphoria.

What is it about a bender that causes this guilty sensation? Do I feel bad because I act like an animal sometimes, or is it simply a symptom of dehydration? Did I do something awful while I was "time travelling?" I woke up with all my clothes on and no bruises on the body. Did I use up all my endorphins on my liver? Should I take more vitamin C? There are no good answers to these questions, but it soothes me to ask them.

Empirical evidence gathered since the original publishing of this post suggests that the third-day anxiety (also guilt, shame) relates less to the physical consquences of drinking (e.g. dehydration, bruising), than to the behavior associated with it (e.g. ridiculing God, urinating for arc) . Specifically, the level of post-drunken anxiety is directly proportional to the inhibition difference between the drunken fool and the average sober self.

One hypothesis for solving this problem involves acting the drunken fool while sober. By reducing the inhibition difference, one must reduce the level of post drunk anxiety. However, does this action eliminate the need to get drunk?

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Friday, June 25, 2004

A Man Should Have Balls

When, if not all the time, does being professional detract from your personal life? So I have this girl, Liliana, in my car, and I desperately want to rent her an apartment. Not because of my meagre commission, or even to know her bedroom window, but rather that I need to see her again. I show her a few apartments that I know she won't want, foolishly selling all the way. "This one is close to the train," I say (but be sure to bring a sandwich for the walk). I know that she wants some apartment that I don't have. Once this is ascertained, is it not right to abandon "professionalism" and go to "personalism?" I may have something else she wants. Is professionalism not a myth, a capitalist invention?

I'm sure she smiled. She touched and twirled her hair while we were talking (of course the windows of the car were open, no doubt messing her dark and sultry look). She complimented me on my accent, which she took to be British until I told her I was from Palatine. Do these scant signs permit an abandonment of salesmanship? If I showed obvious sexual interest in all of my sexy clients, wouldn't that cross some awful societal boundary? Does that boundary exist?

Nay, it must be a psychological boundary, some awful product of the great white suburbs where nobody says what they mean. Things are understood, but never really understood. It must be an institutionalized cowardice masquerading as manners, castration as sophistication, a polite illness.

I feel terribly confused and regretful. A man should have balls, and while mine are there for fondling, they don't seem to be providing the behavior necessary to get laid. What is wrong with my balls? Should I send them back to the factory, the uterus?

LISTENING TO: "Human Nature" by Michael Jackson


Monday, June 21, 2004

Tomorrow Will Be All Right

Tomorrow will be all right for I'll sleep sober through the night: No water chugs at dawn, no lamps burning awful light. Brain cells working fully, no cursing getting tight. I'll wake up kind of early, make coffee and a bite.

At least that's what I tell myself. But what if I can't fall asleep? What if my thoughts, unencumbered by brain damage, keep screaming a terrible word like "flabbergasted" or "melanoma?" Ah, vile synapses. I know their secret (electricity!), but they're just too fast for me to control without chewing aluminum foil or sucking a nine-volt.

Or what if I'm locked into that fantasy where my job is to pull hot drowning girls out of the community pool? I think even the narcoleptic would agree that that would create too much excitement to sleep. You can't let them drown, even in imagination. Especially when they'll be so grateful.

Grateful enough to find me some ether.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Introduction to the Good Word

Greetings friends, lovers, friends who would be lovers if they were mediocre-looking women,

Today is a fine day. Today I begin to speak out from my world. Today I join the many voices echoing through cyberspace. Will my voice be heard? Will you listen? If you do, I will amuse you. Go ahead, read. Indulge yourself a belly-laugh, give a sinister smile, rub more lotion on your parts, however you choose to react is okay. No one will judge you here. You can even punch CTRL ALT DELETE when you've had too much. But come back, come back, don't ever go away for good. I couldn't bear that.

Never mind what some doctor said. This can cure what ails you. There is a sweet medicinal herb that grows on this page. Put your lighter down. Slowly. Don't hurt yourself. This is an herb of the soul, a grass of the heart, a weed in the cornfield of thought. Let it grow and reproduce. Keep the Round-Up away. There are thorns in this patch, but also pretty blue and purple flowers.

This is the diary public.