Log of Life

This is somewhat like my online journal...
proof for the masses that, yes, there is actual, factual evidence
that my life sucks.

August 26, 2002: The first day of classes at JMU... a fitting time to start the log of life. On the walk to class I see a dead and bloated squirrel in the road and somehow relate. As I walk into the heavily traveled street with my eyes closed, a driver screams "traffic monkey" out the window. I wonder if I can keep the name. I watch the Devil's Advocate and realize that the moral of the story is that Keanu Reaves is the anti-christ. What's new? No work today. The boss has sent me home to teach me that misery follows me whether I am on or off the clock. I'm awoken at 2am with a sudden urge to pee. There is no toilet paper in the bathroom. I step on an earring before falling back into bed.

September 12, 2002: Three in the morning... the roomate accidently lets the cat outside so it can leisurely stroll in the roads. A massive cat hunt is underway. While soldier-crawling between a stone wall and a cedar bush, I manage to get wedged over the house's old coal shute (that has been mysteriously covered for 20 years.) Upon trying to escape from my uncomfortable position in what seems to be a pile of animal feces, I feel the sheet metal of the coal shute door buckeling underneath me. Ripped from the bushes by my anorexic boyfriend only moments before being plunged into the 15 foot darkness of an abandoned coal shute, my feet and legs are impaled by cedar sticks. My dreadlocks are filled with burrs that have become embedded within the chunks of hair. The weeds can not be removed. My hair must be shaved or ripped out. The cat was never recovered.

September 17, 2002: Struggling to stock the newly recieved masses of porno mags before I got off work, I raced through the aisles of Books-A-Million like a crack addict looking for a fix. With precision skill, I rolled the magazine cart at an estimated 200 mph into my achiles tendon, causing a collapse onto the unwashed hallway floor in front of the men's bathroom. During my 60 seconds of desperate prayers for release from the pain, two men step around my fallen body to get to the pisser.

August 27, 2002: Rain. Dare I say it, the clouds only open up when I step outside. My pants are soaked to the knee-caps with the dirt infested run off water from dorm rooves... homes to students whose cars are worth more than my entire life. Suddenly... a break in the clouds.... a lonely candy machine graciously presents me with a Twix bar. I drop half of it on the ground. My life is over. I head to the JMU bookstore to pick up a health book. The $71 dollar price tag makes me momentarily consider selling a lung to the hospital. I return to my humble home, bookless and wet... feeling like I wet my pants.

September 8, 2002: I fall asleep in philosophy class. During my nap I manage to drool all over my arm, face, and desk. The drool on my cheek managed to remove a large portion of my make-up, leaving a large, white patch of face amongst the regular colored skin. I spend the rest of the day on campus looking like I have lepresy. Sometime during my rush to work that evening I decide that hurrying down a tall set of polished hardwood stairs in socks is safe... leading to an ass-crashing adventure that will never be forgotten.

December 20, 2002: The internet has been down and out since September. I find myself drinking rum and coke at my brother's apartment at 3:00am. All hope for a social life may now be dead. I try to limit my consumption, still remembering the humbling I recieved while puking on a co-worker's bed mere days ago. My family has decided that I will have a birthday dinner at a local restaurant. I fear my birthday will be spent watching Indiana Jones reruns, alone, and drunk off cheap Taylor Chablis. Resistance is futile.