Optimism is, usually, not the way to go when in an argument. You can't justify watching Sex and the City by saying, "Well, at least it's not the View." (But, let's be honest, isn't it still?) And to hell with compromises! Say you were young again and you found a five dollar bill on the street. Your friend wants to give it to that homeless man down the street. You want to get milkshakes for all the boys in the yard. "How about... we buy ONE milkshake... and give the rest to the man?" "...fine." No way. That's bullshit.

I buzzed my hair the other night. Well, I guess Pauly Hana did most of the buzzing but I agreed to it for a number of reasons. In order of significance for racketball, because Poel -- one of my roommates -- moved out and another roommate, Kenny, was gone for the week at a theatre workshop... thing. Also, because the bush was borderline uncontrollable. "And, what the hell, put a small mohawk in there while you're at it." So he did and I like it.

"Why did you do it???!!!"

No, I didn't say, "At least it's not a huge one and I'm not going to color my hair." I try to stray from the bullshit.

I like it mostly because it gives me motivation to play racketball and work out harder. I like it also because it dries almost instantly and is much easier to maintain.

So you don't like it. Well, usually that would make me want to argue. But you don't and I do and we can leave it at that.

Can't we?

I'm in college; I should be allowed to decide how to buzz my own hair.

So, Mom. As you can see, I came home so I could drop off the car and have lunch with you. I left the car and will see you once you calm down because I can't talk to you while you're screaming at me, while you're so erratic that we couldn't sit down and have a meal first. And talk like civilized people. I'm at the grille, now. Eating fries and a gray hamburger. I will walk to work and stuff. This is not teenage angst; I'm not blaring Radiohead in my room and telling my roommates how much you suck and are gay. I like my haircut and I wish you could have behaved otherwise before screaming in my face and telling me that I'm going to live at home from here out.

$2.75

That's how much I am in the red because of this semester's books.

The good news/slim hope is that I paid the various peoples by means of various checks... and told them that they might want to wait before cashing them... because I get paid this Friday.

Does it feel good?

Actually, it feels like the other night when we were playing racketball and, right before we puked, we had that mega huge rally going. And all three of us progressively moved closer and closer to the wall, wrapped in the fury of boyhood competition. And I send one screaming, and then, exploding off the wall so quickly. And Ben does that thing where he positions his whole body paralell to the ground and reaches to send the ball back from where it came... and it skids the ground twice before I can even respond.

"Awwwww you mofo!"

It feels good/not good like that.

Caffeine

One can of Mountain Dew was consumed, by me, in order to properly view a late, private screening of Freedom Writers. I hate Mountain Dew. The screening was cancelled due to fatigue.
One cup of green tea was consumed, by me, shortly afterwards. Snow had been falling softly, magically, and called for the comforting process of brewing.

It is now 5 a.m.

I am more aware of the headache that has been with me all day.
I imagined a photography minor.
I hear the snowplows outside.
I have thought about death... and my student loans.
I am thirsty.
I replayed select scenes from Million Dollar Baby in my head.
I smell the blank scent of myself.
I'm fucked for tomorrow.
I've assumed all sleeping positions.
I can get four and a half hours... starting now.
I have stopped trying.

The Decemberists are grooving about the perfect, the perfect, the perfect, the perfect crime.

The house creaks something mysterious and terrifying. As if it were to collapse upon itself. Implode, House of Usher style. A momentary sweep of headlight streamed through the window above my head and I imagine an old Cadillac crashing through. It destroys my guitar to my right and, to my left, my laptop. It also lands on my skull and I go out like a poor bastard. I hope they say that at my funeral, "The poor bastard..."

I should chase Mountain Dew with green tea in the mornings...

Pistachio Shells in our Front Lawn

Among other household decisions my parents make in order to gain that boost for our various plants and landscape settings. I'll start a little earlier for, you know, context's sake and stuff. I had a cup of tea. Usually I take a spoonful of loose black tea from one of the three aluminum canisters that we keep next to our coffee. (We also have green and white tea.) But the fancy box of Tazo: The Reincarnation of Tea caught my eye. Of course it did. That's what they pay the graphic designers for, right? For that ancient text faded into the background of the display, right behind the "caffeine free" notice.

Oh crap... this is caffeine free?

I had a cup of strong, gorgeous looking, smelling and tasting "deep, red tea made from hibiscus flowers, exotic herbs and natural tropical flavors." And had prepared another cup when my dog jumped onto my lap. I let her sniff the edges of my cup playfully. She inhaled spastically and then, when she grew bored, she exhaled sharply, sending an army of dog snot and flakes of whatever-was-on-the-floor-that-got-tangled-up-in-her-whiskers into my new cup.

Oh, stupid me.

Oh, silly dog with your big, bashful eyes.

So I cleaned my cup and glanced up onto the gray, unforgiving Iowa winter - snowless on January 13 - and saw the pile of pistachio shells. They were maybe four large handfuls in volume and congregated in the woodchips set by my father this past summer to house the liveforevers and rose bushes. Do they decompose that quickly in the winter? Do they compose that quickly at all? There are other such examples of my parents' ingenius ideas. Whether they are Korean or why-the-hell-not ideas... or both, I have no idea.

The potted plants are surrounded by up-turned eggshell halves. They smell like death. I remember once while I vacuuming, I crouched low to reach underneath the couch and was simultaneously befuddled and gagging.

I have a glass of orange Hi-c in the car, coming home with my father. He advised me to dump it on the lawn so the sugars and vitamin(s) could help the patch of grass grow and conform with the rest of the lawn. Magically maybe, switch species to whatever the the majority is. I don't know if it worked... I'm going to bet not.

While the eggshells may sit there for the entire rest of this year, the shells in our lawn may have to be dug up and discarded by the time Spring rolls around.