I really wanted to give you a tip. I always tip. I often tip too well. I tip when the service is horrendous and the person I'm tipping routinely kicks me out of the bar for no reason. I could not tip you however as you didn't have change to break a twenty and there was no place on the credit card receipt for me to write one in. It was on the corner of Tonawanda and Niagara. My minivan's belt flew off after barreling through a puddle on the 198 on my way to graduation. You found it odd that graduation was held before the final day to submit work. I agreed. You said you were still working on a paper and it was due next week. I said good luck. When it became apparent that I could not give you a tip, you told me not to worry about it and to tip the next guy. I asked your name as I left. You said Brain. I planned on mailing a tip the next week addressed to you at your employer, but like most of my good intentions, I failed to follow through. If this was indeed you Stickboy, than I do believe I owe you a drink or two.

I suppose I was a little harsh on the houseguests in the last entry. While they did drudge up unpleasant memories of touring the Binghamton Whalers locker room when I was younger whenever they came within ten feet of me, they certainly werent ungrateful guests. They traveled with a fully stocked bar in addition to a kitchen with mountains of burrito fixings. Lenny a card carrying graduate of the New York State Bartenders Academy was more than egger to mix up a variety of drinks using whatever he could find around the apartment including Roxys three week old leftover clam juice. I wasnt so much pissed at them personally, but more my inability to resist consuming whatever intoxicants are within my sight. I had wanted to make a drastic change in my lifestyle immediately following graduation, but this has not taken place as of yet and I think I was just looking for something / someone else to blame besides myself. The house is quiet and mostly aired out now, and Im looking forward to a peaceful evening alone before having to go back to work in the morning. With the exception of two days last week, Ive worked everyday for the last two weeks as an assistant tech for a marathon of dance recitals at work. I bust my ass for the setup and breakdown, but during the actual recitals I mainly stand around and try not to look at the girls for fear that my look of confusion as to why parents pay to see their six year daughter dress and dance like a sex object maybe easily be mistaken as a look of arousal. Though I did accidentally see some little girl half naked this evening, I mostly avoid such awkward situations by staring at my notepad and writing shitty haikus.

Dance little rich girl
Daddys little prostitot
Mommys on Zoloft.

Im not even sure Im writing these properly, but it helps pass the evening when the novelty of watching rich suburban teenagers tap dance to techno remixes of Nirvana wears thin.

With the exception of maybe one or two nights, we’ve been entertaining houseguests for the past three weeks straight and it’s fucking got to stop. They pride themselves on having no home and earning their keep slinging burritos and beer at festivals, but for living such a modest life they certainly pack more than their fair share of “white coffee� up their schnozzles. I actually heard one of them commenting about not being able to afford deodorant while in the process of blasting a line off a piece of broken mirror. I'm sure they mean well, but if you’re staying at someone’s house for a week, crashing on their couches and using their blankets, if not for your own sake have some consideration for your humble hosts: take a fucking shower.

I’m tired of feeling guilty about things, and as if I didn’t have enough things to feel guilty about already, now I feel guilty as each day passes and I don’t add anything to this journal. It’s not that I don’t think about it, I think extensively during the day about topics I’d like to address or stories I think are worthy of being retold, but once I sit down to do so I blank on what exactly I want to use this journal for. I started keeping a written private journal around two and a half years ago, but only began writing deeply and religiously in it following a serious personal disaster I let myself fall into little more than a year ago. Since then most of my entries have tended to be severely self-critical, and while this may or may not have helped dig myself out of the particular ditch I was stuck in during that time, I find it very difficult to write in my journal now about anything other than my perceived shortcomings. Since realizing this, I’ve been keeping two other small personal journal / notepads that I mostly use to keep personal reminders and ideas for projects, as well as a full sized notebook that I try to write about whatever comes to my mind for a predetermined amount of time several times a week. I feel guilty when I fail to update any of these journals on a regular basis, and now that I have this journal, I find myself at a loss for it’s purpose and feel as if I’ve failed myself and others by not posting even sporadically often. Let me think this over a little more and I’ll try to work some time into my routine to post regularly. I find myself equally freaked out and fascinated by the concept of online public journals and am beginning a one year project tomorrow that addresses some of the issues that relate to this blurring of private and public presentations of self. I’ll write more about that once it gets underway.

Jesus Christ. I had hoped graduating would have set me straight and brought some well needed serenity into my existence, but this last week had been a drunken washout… not to say it hasn’t been a rocking adventure, but for the precious blood of Christ, I’m awfully tired of waking up and having to figure out what I am, never mind who I am and having such an awful time attempting to figure out what this strange object next to my bed is making such an awful racket…

I enjoy being alive and thank myself for allowing me to be so.

I came back to the Valley of Opportunity / Triple-Cities / "Greater Binghamton" for the weekend to be poked and prodded by all the medical people I will no longer be able to visit for free once I'm booted off my parent's insurance. I'm really not looking forward to Monday's visit as there's been subtle hints abound about the "glove test" which I feel has something to do with my family's history of defunct colons, but I guess there's no use fretting over the inevitable. My doctor's thumb in the ass today to ward of 20 thumbs and machines in the ass tomorrow is something I'll just have to deal with. I always hated getting physicals, especially in Elementary school. Our district's doctor's name was Dr. Piller. He always had a five o'clock shadow and uncombed hair, and the site of him alone passing in the hallway was enough to give me the chills. He never told me to turn my head, I had my own doctor to do this, but kids would line up twenty deep and go one by one into his little office coming out buckling their belts. Freaked me the hell out.

Waking up with your brain sloshing around skull and recalling the fucked up shit you did and said the night before is bad enough. Waking up in a pile of rubbish on your floor unable to recall what happened during the two hours that followed your drunk ass taking a nose dive through your gracious host’s CD collection and nearly putting your head through her window while naked feels much, much worse. I do remember having a fantastic time prior to my spectacular party foul, though I cannot attest to how the evening concluded. As I have a history of doing so, I apologize if I did or said anything that may have left a shit stain on an otherwise fantastic evening.