My air conditioning was broken, but now it's fixed! My apartment is at twenty below to celebrate. All of my arm hairs are goose-bumped, more from the cold than the excitement, I think.

Mark is stuck in NJ because Amtrak is stupid.

My computer is currently downloading the entire Lain anime series in one go with bittorrent. It is officially the largest download I've ever attempted, at just over three gigabytes. The only other files over 1 GB that I've downloaded: the three thirds of the entire Invader Zim series (also over bittorrent), and the install for The Sims Online beta. If the Zim files had been in one torrent, they would've been the largest... but they weren't. In any case, it's nice to see DSL going to good use.

My penis is bigger than your honor student.

I saw possibly the stupidest bumper sticker ever today: "my border collie is smarter than your honor student." People who have bumper stickers like that make me sad for the world. First of all, no, your border collie is a dog and, as such, is not smarter than an honor student. It's not even as smart as those kids who "can beat up" honor students. Your border collie is smarter than the average dog, but most likely stupider than the average raccoon. Please, feel free to get depressed, set your dog on fire, and shoot yourself. But before you do, remember to take that annoying sticker off you car, as it is an embarrassment to civilization. While we're on the subject, the original honor student bumper stickers say that "my child is an honor student," rather than "my student is an honor student." However, the grammar on the border collie sticker implies the second. The creator was obviously not an honor student himself.

"My kid can beat up your honor student!" Ho, ho, good joke, that. Watch as I pee myself with glee. Or not. America already lags behind the rest of civilized countries in dedication to education. When someone here has the guts and good sense to celebrate academic achievements, he should be applauded, not ridiculed. No amount of military might has been able to persuade the rest of the world that our president isn't a moron, and for good reason: he is a moron. When redneck stupidity becomes the dominant culture in a country, does that mean it is in decline? Or can only smaller, less powerful countries afford the luxury of intelligence, like art house theaters with indie films?

...or not. How oh how did I get to be such a sickly insomniac? I used to be such a normal little boy. I used to be an Eagle Scout. I think part of me still is.

I'm bored with so many things I used to find exciting. For instance, video games just aren't doing it for me anymore. Have they decimated my already short attention span to the point that even they are no longer enjoyable?

My bedroom and living room are littered with DVDs I haven't watched yet. Why am I buying them if I don't watch them? It's not like I'm buying crap. These are movies I've seen, liked, and want to see again. But I'm never in the mood to watch them anymore. Dave not in the mood to watch movies? you gasp. Something is obviously wrong here.

Downloading. I've been downloading and downloading. Movies continuously go unwatched, games unplayed, music unheard, apps un-... um... applied. My computer becomes more illegal by the minute to the benefit of no one.

I'm on autopilot. Which is good sometimes. But not when I'm coasting through things that are supposed to be bringing me enjoyment. I haven't written a poem in almost a week, but that's no cause for concern... my writing comes and goes. But I've never been this bored before in my life. Even depression is more exciting than this. I'm too busy floating along to remember to sleep, and I'm not sure if I even care.

Last weekend, I drove down with Mark to Mike and Sarah's wedding. Dan, Patrick, and Tammy were in the wedding party, but we were not. We ended up helping out anyway with setting up the sound for the reception. The whole thing felt like a whirlwind. Drive six hours down to West Virginia. Bachelor party. Sleep. Wedding. Reception. Six and a half hours back. It hurts to drive that much. I'm still feeling it.

I need a vacation from Baltimore, and last weekend doesn't qualify. New Jersey is just as bad. I need to go somewhere where I won't be around people or computers or even pens and paper, so I can just think. I hate summer. It's always too hot outside, and I feel trapped in my apartment. And where the hell would I go? More long drives don't sound very enticing. I have obligations here, to class, etc. I don't have money to throw away for hotel rooms.

I've been awake for 24 hours. I've been inside for 24 hours. Part of me wants to lie down and part of me wants to find some place to go I haven't been before, print out MapQuest directions, go outside, get in my car, and drive. I don't know which part is the Eagle Scout anymore.

There are way too many blogs written by depressed people. Yes, great, I took the time to read your post, and now I want to jump off a bridge. Sure, I'll let you go first. I shouldn't be adding the world's collective misery.

There are way too many boring blogs. Dammit, I don't care what condiments you put on your burger at lunch. I don't care that you ate a burger. I don't care that you had lunch. I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective ennui.

There are way too many blogs that provide amateur commentary on world events. If I want the news, I'll turn on the TV. Or nytimes.com. Or whatever. Why would I care about some jackass's lay opinion of Iraq if I don't care about most professional ones? I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective misguidedness.

There are way too many blogs written by "camwhores." If I wanted to look at porn, I'd download porn. I don't need to see some tease in skimpy clothing with her bare stomach pressed up against her webcam. Honey, if the modeling company wanted you, they'd've called already. I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective vanity.

There are way too many serious blogs. Seriously, as in don't take yourself so. Crack a smile, crack a joke, and stop cracking your site over my head. If it was supposed to be professional, you'd be getting paid for it. I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective weight.

There are way too many light blogs. Stop trying to be so funny all the time. Real lives aren't always funny. You don't always have to be so damn clever with your language choice either. Your life isn't scripted by the writers of Dawson's Creek. I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective wit.

There are way too many blogs with terrible poetry. Publish your book, then publish online. If it's not good enough for an editor, it's not good enough for me. At the very least, read a book on technique, cause you gotz no skillz. I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective nausea.

There are way too many critical blogs. Do you think I care what you think of how I think? Focus on making your own blog better; don't worry your little head about me and mine. Don't be a whiner. I shouldn't be adding to the world's collective animosity.

But I do anyway. The good (or bad) news is, my blog seems to fit in rather nicely with all the other crap on the web.

Penny went to the vet today for her last set of shots, including her rabies vaccination. Penny is a house-only kitty, so she never goes outside. She would only get rabies from another animal with rabies. No animals like that live in my apartment. I, on the other hand, go outside everyday. I have a better chance of getting rabies than my cat. Swell.

In lieu of reading and ripping apart words, the newly formed writing group I'm in decided to go see some art instead. It was fun. There were cheeses and crackers and stylish ancient Chinese belt-hanging thingies. Hopefully, our first real meeting will be next week, possibly at my place.

I think it's all girls and me in this group, and I don't know whether to be happy because, hey, girls, or feel out of place, or just disappointed with the male sex when it comes to writing groups. I guess guys who write are usually solitary lonely-hearts who chain themselves up in dungeons or something. Like me. But you've got to get out every once in a while. Even if there's all that rabies running around.

Now, if you didn't hear my little rant about Structure (my fav shop) when it changed its brand name to "Express Mens" and therefore effeminated me without my permission, you were either deaf or more than five miles away from me for about a year. With this in mind, my recent actions at the mall deserve a bit of examination.

Steve Madden = popular women's shoes, yes? So why do I now have two pairs of them? Did it have anything to do with a buy-one-get-one-50%-off sale? Are you reading this right? Am I admitting to flocking to the mall for a sale at Steve Madden?

Sadly, yes. This marks a new turning point in my life: I have spurned substance for style.

The shoes are sweet, though. And I bought some wicktastic new Jensen DJ-quality speakers with 12" woofers to make up for it. *grunts, grabs crotch, and spits*

For July 4th, aka The Day We Fight Back via Bill Pullman, I went to Tammy's house and we set off fireworks, and went out to Friday's with her friend Kristen for drinks. I went back over there the next day for a BBQ, and was accused of not really being Jewish by this insane old woman missing a tooth. Oy vey! Then Tammy, Dan, and I raided the liquor cabinet. And then we went back to Friday's with Kristen. Gee whiz, there's so much to do in NJ. Fireworks an' drinkin' an' raisin' hell... meh... could've stayed in the South for that.

The online journal, or "blog," functions on three levels of audience: the writer, the people the writer knows, and the people the writer doesn't know. So, me, you, and you. You know who you are. There is a sort of personal gratification to know that anybody with a search engine and some carefully chosen words can find this site. And there is a sort of personal gratification to know that I can read my own random past thoughts at anytime in the future. But there is a sort of incredible unease with the people reading this who I actually know. These people see me on the street, in their classes, or in their beds (I'm funny and clever!), and inevitably judge me by my writings, or at least look at me differently. Dave, you're crazy, they say, or think at me hard with squinty eyes, and I know because I read it on the Internet, and everybody knows that everything on the Internet is true! Ah, sweet anxiety!

But I'm not crazy. Really. See, the Internet says so.