Journals of an Insane Genius - September 2000

Oh the joy. After Jen's decision to move out last month I find myself in the standard end-of-relationship position; flat on my back in the middle of the living room with a lit but mostly ignored cigarette in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. The CD player has been on random all day and is currently switching from Sting lamenting that, "I hate to say it, I hate to say it, it's probably me", to Seven Mary Three deciding that, "I have become cumbersome, to my girl". How ironically appropriate. Nothing's as depressing as soul searching. What am I gonna do now?

What am I going to do now? Hmmm… Maybe I should make a list of all the things I'd like to do. I mean moping is fun, but I've been hanging around the apartment like some kind of modern day cave dweller for about two weeks now. I guess it's time to stop being a "non event mass" and do something, even if it is kind of goofy. What have I always wanted to do?

I'd really like to visit a psychic and have my palm read. This isn't really a case of paying a female just so she'll hold my hand for a while (that's what manicures are for) it's more of an experiment. I would sit there wide-eyed and compliant as she started her routine and explained some of the mystical aspects contained within the lines on my palm that I somehow managed to overlook during my life-long association with my right hand. Then, when she was relaxed and unsuspecting, I would reach out and oh so gently (this is a meant to be a joke after all) slap her lightly on the cheek with the palm she had been reading and say, "Betcha didn't see that coming didja?" Then again I would probably end up visiting one of the palm readers who actually has some kind of power and end up with a bizarre curse hanging over my head until the end of my days.

Bad idea.

I've always wanted to respond to pointless and annoying questions asked during a job interview in the manner they deserve. Maybe I should go job hunting. I'd sit there in my interview suit making eye contact while trying not to look like I'm trying to make eye contact. Eventually I would be asked what my goal is. I would thoughtfully ponder the question, perhaps rubbing my chin to appear wise beyond my years. Then I would borrow from Patrick McManus and state, "My goal is to shoot a world's record trophy moose". At this point the interviewer would write the phrase "potential troublemaker" across the top of my resume. "What's that you're writing there?", I would demand. She would try to conceal it from me, but I would know better. I'd fix her with a gaze that would freak out Rasputin and menacingly announce, "If you don't stop this behavior I won't be held responsible for my actions." As she scratched a single line through the word 'potential' I'd shout, "That's Is Enough!", stand up, and - while maintaining eye contact - wet my pants. This would tend to diminish the possibility of an office romance at some point in the future, but then again, that kind of interview would probably get me on the fast track to management, and I just don't want to be a manager.

Bad idea.

Perhaps I should get a new car. My brother Mike was telling me about two new kit cars he's discovered. The first is an exact replica of Speed Racer's "Mach 5" from the 1960's animated series. Not bad. I used to run home from school to watch that show, the car was that cool. But I don't know, I mean to pull it off I'd have to dress like Speed Racer as well. The white pants and red socks are bad enough, but how many dates will I get if I have to wear a crash helmet every time I drive? The second car has possibilities; an exact replica of the Batmobile. I mean Batman is always so dark and mysterious that he always seems to draw attractive women to him. Sure they have problems, but I'm kind of used to that by now. Whenever my new girlfriend would ask me about myself I would just tell her that "for her safety" I'm unable to reveal my true identity. That would make it much easier to sneak out of the relationship when things went badly. I wonder what the cost of insurance on the Batmobile would be. Probably so much that I couldn't afford to date.

Bad idea.

Maybe I should get a pen pal. Dear inmate number 7856247, I need a girlfriend and I cannot find one among the law abiding…

Bad idea.