"We, uh, tore a roast apart with our bare hands"

I just ate steak and eggs with my hands. And the dishwasher is clean. I guess that makes me an official bachelor? I think I've been spending too much time with my pirate/cowboy friends. Hell, even when I don't spend actual time with them, just by vicinity I seem to absorb their habits. Example: I missed out on Man Day last week because I was typing a 15 pager (got an A, btw). When Tabuchi and Adams dropped by later that night, 2230, I asked how Man Day went.

"We, uh, tore apart and ate an entire roast with our bare hands. Seven course meal and we didn't even dirty a dish."

I'm both disgusted as well as proud. Kinda the same attitude I've adopted towards Adreniline Boy who, by the way, is now in my phone as such. Smiley face. I'm really very impressed and a tad bit proud of his ability to maintain a consistently high level of asshole-ishness. Not sure why I've even retained him as a contact.

Ex-roommie is in my phone as "The Ex-Wife," and her jealous-possessive ass boyfriend is in there as "The Ex Wife's Bf." Just about everyone has an alias. This is for fun, I guess, a passive-aggressive categorizing of the people in my life. My alias system also functions as anti-theft protection. I mean, even if a friend usurps my phone, like that one Tuesday night when Shoe had to change it back to english for me... even if that happens again, the usurper will surely be screwed. Good luck figuring out my system! I digress.

I say that a lot, "I digress." But I actually do. Subject change.

I checked my grades last night on a dare. I typically don't check them until the end of the next semester, which drives my more competitive friends absolutely nuts. Smile. Minus that whole failing statistics thing, I did surprisingly well.

Yesterday I had a professor walk up to me and tell me that my final paper was one of the best he's read. This was my Whitman essay entitled, "Antebellum, Postbellum and Cerebellum, Too."

"Whitman’s bad night did not consist of too much fortified wine nor did it consist of sushi from Tijuana, but instead his writing was poisoned by war. Brutality, dividedness and death became noxious to Whitman’s soul and thus his writing. The reason for the misanthropic transformation in Whitman’s antebellum writing was the Civil War and this is depicted in his post-bellum writing."

I actually had to re-read it last night to remind myself how the hell I tied all my ontological questioning and creative vomit together with a neat literary ribbon. Oh, it's good and I'm going to go ahead and thank wine and sleep deprivation.