I felt completely...overwhelmed by my entertainment options last night. I had so many things to do after I got home from the office. First, I planned on playing with my vintage Korg Poly-61 synthesizer that I just bought off of ebay, but then I changed my mind and wanted to play my guitar since I just recently bought a new BOSS Digital Delay DD-5 effects processor. I'm in the market for a new combo amp, but my old peavy will do for now. I couldn't decide between keyboard or guitar, so I ended up watching something atrocious on Fox while figuring out what to do. I had options. I could have played my gameboy, my gamecube, or my playstation 2 (I have unopened, unplayed games for gameboy and gamecube). I could've used my new video editing software to edit that video of the beach that I shot two months ago on my DV camcorder (it's too bulky...I want to buy a new one...maybe one of those tiny new Sony Micro-MV cameras). I could've played with my kitten. I could've cooked a nice meal with all my new cookware that I bought on sale from amazon. I could've done some early Christmas shopping (mostly for me, maybe something for my girlfriend). I could've read some of my new interior design and music magazines, while listening to the new CDs I bought at Borders the other day. I could've watched some of those DVDs that I recently bought but still haven't watchd. I had so much to do. I had too much to do. I felt a little sick (the same kind of sickness I feel after browsing the web for too long at work...a weird, distant, slight nausea from staring and clicking and staring for so long), but above all, I felt bored. And lazy. In the end, I wasted another night looking at cars and pornography online.

Everything's good. It's so good, that I don't really feel like I'm at ease. Normally I'm worried about things. Constantly thinking, plotting, fantasizing. When I'm stuck in traffic on the way to/from the office, I try to think about my social manipulation techniques...how to better get what I want out of people. I don' t think that it necessarily makes me a bad person...hell, isn't that what being an American is about? Working hard (or benefitting from someone else's hard work) and getting ahead? It's all a big game. No, it's all a big, cruel joke. When I watch television and see Governor Arnold Schwarzeneggar talking about how "the democrats are addicted to spending...they need to go to an addiction place," my heart swells up with something and I just want to get high and stuff my face with nachos and watch Total Recall and clap my hands in delight during the scene where arnold uses the civilian on the escalator as a human shield. So really, I'm completely fine with the world I live in. Because I have a lot of awesome stuff. And soon I'll have more. But to do that I need to turn things around and make up for recent mental vacations. I'm going to work really hard in the office to make up for my weirdo antics. I got into some trouble a few weeks ago where I had an assignment to find appropriate stock imagery for this client presentation we had coming up. I completey spaced out and wasted four hours by collecting nothing but photos of orangutans/chimps/baboons/etc and really old, wrinkly chinese women. I would have been in a lot of trouble (I've heard that the company is looking to let a few people go) but somehow I talked my way out of it. I told my manager that my meds got all screwed up and it has resulted in difficulty in concentration and a loss of general understanding. He gave me a personal day. I spent it at home, on the computer all day, subscribing to more internet amateur pornography websites: "bookworm bitches," "black bros, white hoes," and "bangboat." It really cleared my head. The booger joke at work was the only subsequent boobery since then, and I don't think anyone caught on that I was doing it on purpose. So the work situation is improving. I'm definately trying a lot harder. My kitty, the Judge, aka Johnny Panzer, aka Shakie Wilcox, aka Mussolini, is doing very well. He's so full of spunk. Holding him really makes me not hate everything. And I've started having intercourse again.

It seems as if I've snapped back into reality. It's really good that I did, because people (at work and everywhere else) were starting to notice. I think what jolted me out of the depressive/detached daze I've been in was last night's episode at the local shopping mall. It was truly a sight to behold. It went like this:

I was in the market for a new pair of Nike running shoes, a new baseball hat, and a new Polo shirt. As I'm walking through the mall, and about to pass Kay Bee toys, I spot this wretched little thing approaching me. It's this fat little kid...just a complete example of everything that could be wrong with America's youth. He's walking next to his mother, who keeps trying to touch him or fix his hair or talk to him, and he keeps cursing her and slapping her hand away. And yet this doesn't anger her. He's pretty fat...probably about nine years old...wearing expensive shoes...ninety dollar Nikes (I was planning on getting a similar pair, but decided not to), and, ironically, a pricey-looking Adidas warmup jacket (doesn't look like he's the athletic type). He's got headphones on, and they're connected to an iPod clipped to his sagging Levi's. The headphones are blasting some kind of terrible nu-metal music, I imagine. And he's playing a gameboy (while walking; people are forced to walk around him because he isn't paying attention to where he's going) and chewing bubble gum and blowing bubbles. The way he was chewing gum, loudly and opening his mouth widely, was enough to make sick. I was still in my depressed daze, mind you, but this moved me somehow. I think it brought back memories of this birthday party I attended when I was eleven years old, where someone ate all of the candy out of my goody bag. Typically, I blamed the fat kid at the party, berating him and accusing him of eating all of my gummy worms and mini kit-kat bars. Anyway, I was moved (angered and amused at the same time) by the image of this fat little goblin slowly walking towards me, oblivious to his surroundings, surely on his way to the toy store so his mommy could buy him some more video games. I quickly ducked into the toy store, looked around for a suitable prop, and grabbed a viking helmet and toy battle axe from a display near the front of the store. Then I hid behind a tall stack of Legos and peeped around the corner, until I saw him approaching the store's entrance. I lept out from behind the stack, knocking them over, the battle axe raised above my head and the helmet near slipping off my head. "Your's will be a glorious death, you fat little slug!" I shouted at him. The look on his face was priceless, right before he lost his balance. He fell backward, his iPod and gameboy both slamming on the ground. I laughed maniacally, the viking helmet having slipped further forward and obscuring my vision. I could hear him crying and swearing, his mother screaming at me, and people whispering. At least I think I heard all that. My laughter drowned it all out. And it was at that point that I completely snapped back into reality. I placed the helmet and axe back into the display bin, and quickly left the store, with the sound of weeping fat and a mother's consolation (promising to buy him an extra video game) behind me. I think I even heard the kid tell his mom to "fuck off." Then I heard someone use the word "cops" and "security," so I picked up the pace and ducked into a Waldenbooks, where I spent the next hour looking at new age astrology books in the back of the store. There were no consequences, except that I now feel completely awake.

Something's Wrong.

Another bad day at work. I don't know why I've been in such a slump lately. But nothing has brought me joy all week. I had a brilliant idea today in the bathroom, while examining myself in the mirror after taking a piss. I noticed a large dry booger in my nose, and I picked at it, but decided to not take it completely out of my nose. Grinning at myself in the mirror, with the booger slightly protruding from my nose, made me feel something. It was a feeling of joy, the first I'd felt in days. I left the bathroom, booger in place, trying hard not to laugh. I walked around the office, making a point to talk to as many people as possible...asking them some useless bullshit question about the so and so project or account, all while keeping a serious face. No one said a thing. The best part was the forcefully sober look on each one of my co-worker's faces. And how awkward and tense it was. So many weird pauses and fumbling for words, and nervous laughter, eyes darting everywhere. After I grew bored of wasting everybody's time with my booger, I picked it out of my nose and smeared it on the "3" button on the fax machine dialpad. The rest of the day was a test in self-control, trying not to break out in giggles.

I am such a coward.

The past week's been a rough one. I haven't made love to her in two weeks...neither of us seem at all interested. I've been staying up late doing old jigsaw puzzles from my childhood that I found in my father's attic. But more disconcerting than my lack of sex that is how my rage has been much worse than it usually is. Perhaps it's the passing of summer or because I keep seeing previews for that Wanda Sykes show on FOX (I had to buy a pumpkin just to smash it in my driveway to relieve the tension seeing those commercials instils in me). Things have been really uncomfortable at work lately. It seems like I'm forgetting how to calmly deal with situations that irritate me.

Anyway, I was on the phone with my mother earlier in the week while I was stuck in traffic on I-95, and she was excitedly telling me about going to the brand new Best Buy store that opened up back home. For a moment, my heart sunk and the sky seemed to turn grey as I pondered why the grand opening of some stupid megastore would be some worth getting excited about, and I wanted to cry knowing that going to Best Buy would be the highlight of my mother's week. Then, just as quickly, I imagined about twenty DVDs that I've been meaning to pick up. I continued talking to my mother for the next fifteen minutes, not hearing a word she was saying, then told her I loved her and said goodbye. I then got off the highway and spent an hour looking for the nearest Best Buy store, but sadly I didn't find one. Luckily I found two Targets, three Walmarts, and two Blockbusters. Between all five stores I spent two hundred and eighty dollars on the following DVDs: The new Harry Potter movie, the new Lord of the Rings movie, Minority Report, Black Hawk Down, Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace (even though it was terrible, I thought of how awesome it would look on the Sony HDTV and progressive scan DVD player I plan on purchasing), Training Day, The complete third season of the Sopranos, Moulin Rouge, the Back to the Future Trilogy, Chicago, and The Matrix (I already own a copy but a friend's been borrowing it for two months, and this one was value-priced at 14.99). My DVD binge ended my shitty week on a high note, but so far I've only watched two episodes on Disc One of the Sopranos, and the rest of the DVDs lay, still shrink-wrapped, in a stack on my bedroom floor, next to a bookcase full of books I've never read.

Today at the office, Will told me that he had found this great personality test online. He urged me to take it, as he was dying to know what character type I would be classified as. I indulged him and, curious myself, took the test. It was a series of sixty questions, based on social preferences, interaction, goals etc. In the end, it classified me as a 'dispassionate introvert,' whatever the fuck that means. Will seemed a little taken aback when I told him that these were the results the test had given me. He then quickly started telling me about his own results and why he thought they were really accurate, and how he's a really amazing person and statistically a very rare personality type. But while he was talking, it was as if I were watching a foreign film. It seemed that his lips moved, and words came out, yet I could not understand them. I imagined subtitles appearing below his face, and I spent more time trying to read the subtitles than actually listening to his drivel. He stopped talking, awaiting some sort of validation on my end. "Well?" he asked. I wasn't sure what he wanted to hear from me. The only thing I was able to get out was "I'd kill for a peanut butter and banana sandwich right now."

I had another episode again last night. It had been a few months and it rather took me by suprise. The boys and I went out to a number of popular bars and drank heavily. I remember drinking a lot of six dollar beers, smoking a joint in someone's car, and taking some pills in a bathroom (But I think this is completely unrelated to my episode). I got home somehow and thought that I should make a phonecall. I reached for my Motorola T-720 mobile phone but accidently picked up my Gameboy Advance SP instead. I stared at it in confusion, feeling completely nauseaus and not understanding why it was in my hand. I placed it back on the desk and picked up my Sony RZ-900 minidisc recorder and placed it up to my head as if I was about to speak into it. I became more confused and grew annoyed. Minutes later I was sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by my numerous consumer electronics. I became frantic, desperately trying to figure out which one was my cell phone and what I wanted to do with it. Everything looked the same, performed the same function. Small, Japanese, efficient. Cost $179.99, $280.00, $99.99, $499.99. Before I knew it, tears of frustration were running down my cheeks as I tried cramming Gameboy cartridges into my Nikon Coolpix 700 digital camera, then eventually into my cell phone. The phone snapped in half and I laughed. My tears stopped. I shoved all of my electronics into a corner next to my nightstand and went into the kitchen to make a protein shake. Tired and runny-nosed, I stayed up for another four hours bidding on toys from my childhood on Ebay.

As I looked into her eyes I could see nothing but undevoted love, but all I could feel was the desire to be more powerful, move more quickly, feel like more of a man. She told me she loved me and I said "I love you too," but all I could think about was 230 horsepower, turbocharged with all wheel drive. With optional high-performance semi-racing flywheel and triple-plate clutch. I'm not even sure what that is, but i'm positive that I need it, in case I ever want to do some high-performance, off-road driving, which I'll probably get around to, one day. Optional foglights. Heated seats. Roof Rack. I'll definately need a new mountain bike to go on the roof rack. Like the one John from the office has. A Cannondale, maybe.

While making love to her I imagined racing through all gears, passing all others on the highway. Well, maybe on fridays. Highway traffic on fridays seems to be much better than from mondays through thursdays. Yeah, that turbo would really be sweet on a friday morning. The thought of the sound that the engine makes through the fully-functional hood scoop (I can imagine it perfectly in my head from watching the commercial so many times on the internet) got me even more aroused. More turned-on. She screamed my name and I imagined another woman, beautiful with large breasts and long blonde hair, sitting in the passenger seat of my new sportscar. Wearing Expensive Sunglasses. Something Gucci. I tried to whisper her name but I'm so out of shape that I was wheezing, and it comes out more like "Oh meehmmmmff." She really loves me. But I really want that car.

The woman sitting in front of me on the train this morning had a terrible cough. She coughed every thirty seconds or so for the duration of the forty five minute train ride. It drove me close to madness. I restrained myself from yelling at her and asking her to stop her incessant coughing when I realized that it probably wasn't her fault. She couldn't help it. Though maybe it could have been prevented through better hygiene and more vitamins. I could not decide on whether or not to offer this poor woman a cough drop. I didn't work up the courage to ask her. Her coughing continued. But then the question plagued me for the rest of the day: did I want to offer her a cough drop for my comfort or for hers?

I am convinced that the fat fuck sitting next to me on the second train washed his clothes with cigarette butts.