It feels like Friday because we had band practice yesterday. Yeah. That's right. This I Command can warp space and time.

It's time to wrapup for this weekly. Here's what I did:

1. Made a muscle.
2. Thought about some things.
3. Went home.
4. Hit the snooze button.
5. Drank beer.
6. six six.
7. Didn't go grocery shopping.
8. Saw a dog.
9. Considered going outside.

Here's a secret:

I am not fully capable of doing my job. Shhhh!

I need more stimulation.

Today, I continued in the trend of showing up on time for work. I showed up early enough this morning that I got to go over by the jail and read for ten minutes before I went upstairs.

I just bought nine dollars worth of honey. Sadly, that's only two pounds. It tastes good but I don't think it's worth it. I had my hopes up for something richer. It does have little bits and pieces of beehive in it though so that's fun.

"Next."
"Hotdog and fries."
"Everything?"
"Yeah."
"Drink?"
"Coke."
"What kind?"
"Coke."
"Regular or diet?"
"Regular."
"Three sixty."
"Thanks."
"Thanks."

I'm ashamed that I used to use hyphens. It's such a drity past. I should be decapitated by ro-bots.

Some people use pictures of pretty beaches and palm trees as their Windows backdrop. They stare whimsically at their computers, imagining they're smelling coarse salt air rather than downtown stank, allowing a halcyon memory of childhood to skip through their minds. The illusion only lasts so long though and soon they are back in a little box, squirreling away bits of paper to serve the greater evil. "Oh woe!" their inner monologues cry, "I am in an office! The dread! The dread!" They sit, bitter but helpless, each of their cheeks wetted by a single, silent teardrop.

If anyone actually reads this:

http://www.myspace.com/thisicommand

Well, kids, it's time for the weekly wrapup once again. Here's what I did this week:

1) Took three days to eat a sub.
2) Turned twentyfour.
3) Got angry and threw all the shit in my closet around my appartment and then put it away but not before stabbing my big sketchpad six times with a ballpoint pen.
4) Saw Sweet Cobra on Monday.
5) Took pictures of things.
6) six six
7) Can't remember and don't want to.
8) Sat here.
9) Considered eating a potato.

It really wasn't as bad as it sounds. At least I didn't do ten things, then I'd be all stressed out and contemplating making drastical changes in my life. I need to eat more, I think.

There's something going on outside. I'm gonna go check it out.

Another birfday down. Twentyfour. Old.

I've got five and a half hours of work for this week and I'm done. Two days off then back at it.

I'm thinking of moving again but I don't know where.

I went to that hotdog joint afterall. It turns out, it's really a cornedbeef joint. Sweet. Just a sandwich cost me to the tune of seven dollars. Damn good. In it's entirety it was storebought sliced rye bread, mustard and, reasonably enough, cornedbeef. The kicker: there must've been three quarters of a pound of some of the best cornedbeef I've yet had.

I ate it in the park.

You know, it's my birfday and I want my lunch to be good eatin'. I can't decide what though. I saw this coollooking hotdog joint a little souf of here--real inconspicuous but you could tell it was popular--but that doesn't seem appropriate. Besides, I'm not sure if I'm in the mood for hotdogs.

I'm considering taking the trek to Greektown to get a gyro. It's a hike so that will get me out of the office for a good stretch. What bothers me about that is there's some other coollooking places around here that seem to have gyros as a featured dish. I've already eaten everywhere in Greektown when I lived in Pilsen so I want to try something new.

Maybe I should just go have a beer. I do enjoy beer, you know.

I feel much calmer this morning, thanks. A little hungover but calmer.

I'm not sure that I know anything anymore but I'm fairly certain I don't give a shit.

I don't want to sleep. Who needs it? Worthless. You wake up again and then what? Same shit as today. And why would I enjoy it any more the next time around?

Same thing time and time again. My ancestors went through this shit. I don't need to.

I'm just really angry. I can't explain it. I just am.

Yesterday, I had it all figured out. Today, that illusion left me. Now I'm bitching on my blog. It does nothing. Fuck if I can stop caring though. I care. That's my problem.

Fuck it. I'm going for a walk.

Everyone at work is packing up things and getting ready to move. I don't have to put any effort into this apparently and it's perfectly alright for my to just sit here typing this thing. Nobody's even bothering me since they're too busy packing to be breaking their computers. Now, I just need to find a way to get some bars going across the screen so I can put my feet up and read something.

My lunch will proabably be very long toaday. Well, hopefully.

My creative energy is sapped. I think I might just have to pack it up and be done with it--just walk away, smacking my hands together and smugly grinning. That would be satisfying for several moments, I'm sure.

Today has been absolutely excruciating for me. I can offer no hypothesis as to why but that's how it goes. An ordinary day can turn out to be really repellent sometimes. Today is that day, I suppose.

Somehow I got to work a halfhour early this morning. Actually, I know how. I set my alarm a halfhour fast and managed to not notice that before I looked at the clock as I stepped off the train.

I guess I shouldn't say I got to work early. I prefered to go sit on the benches in front of the prison and read. I felt strikingly out of place. I'm afraid I will never cut the mustard as a stinking vagrant.

You know, if I was as rich as Michael Jackson, I wouldn't use it to get away with touching little boys' penises. I can think of a lot of things that are much more fun than that--pretty much anything else really. Such a waste....

I'm not quite sure I have anything to say. In fact, I'm certain I don't.

The entire universe is reading 1984.

This week is finally coming to its timely end. Here's a recap of what I did for those interested:

1) Showed up to work extraordinarily hungover and wearing a flannel shirt. (Twice.)
2) Went to band practice. (Twice.)
3) Ate.
4) Setup seventeen computers.
5) Read three books.
6) six six
7) Talked about 1984 a lot while drunk.
8) Did pushups and situps every day.
9) Considered picking up some sort of drug addiction.

That's about it. I really try to do less than ten things a week. You know, keep the stress level low and all. I'm pushing it as it is since I did some of those things more than once.

One of my posts from yesterday was so bad I had to delete it. Every so often, I go through this whole thing and revise it, erasing the past and replacing it with a much brighter one.

I predicted this morning this day would be a rough one. I was right. Again, I sit here soaked and sweating. Our airconditioning just teases--a waft of cool air here, another there but nothing where I'm at. If I'm spending the majority of my waking hours artificially heated and cooled, I prefer that the methods used at least be effective.

In case you're interested, I'm wearing the flannel shirt from Monday again--minus the phantasmal pink wisp of fabric around my wrist. That has found a permanent home on the strap of my manpurse, where I feel it's weirdness and noticeability will only go recognized by that select group of people who appreciate such things.

On a similar note, without changing subjects abruptly at all, I just had this conversation:

"That guy was crazy!"
"You mean he believes in the arc?"
"What?"
"The arc--it rained for forty days and forty nights."
"He's not that crazy. He's just nuts."

I was the second one speaking by the way.

A smattering of rainfall in the souf loop abdridged my afternoon walk rather painfully today. As much as I cherish time spent drenched in pleasingly carcinogenic Chicago precipitation, I still prefer to spend my dull office afternoons in dry clothes and shoes. I exchanged a half hour of pleasure for a few hours of less discomfort. I'm not sure if that was the best choice but it's the one I made.

Regretfully, the thought that I could use my soakedness as an excuse to go home early did not dawn on me until just now.

I ate a bunch of strawberries for lunch today. I also had a candybar someone gave me for free. Strawberries are about ten times better than free canybars. I now know that from experience.

I got it made. This week, I have to setup about twenty computers. This takes next to no effort and mostly just involves me sitting and reading books while little blue bars go across the screen.

Not only do I not know what's going on right now but I'm fairly certain I will never know what's going on ever again. I'm wearing a flannel shirt in the middle of June, dripping with beersweat and wearing a wispy pink strip of fabric as a bracelet.

I like the pink strip of fabric. It's very noticeable and weird.

This has been a rough day. I have one of those hangovers that lets you peer into the future. The catch is the only thing you get to see is your own death.

Something greater than myself guided me, I swear.

I marched west then souf, waded through a college campus, a sea of gulls and a congregation of vagrants to utter these magic words:

"Polish. Everything. RC."

The Express Grill, nestled between the highway and UIC, painted a lush yellow and perfumed with Vienna Beef. Its scent carried by highways, subways, trains, streets, buses and wind across the municiple topography of Chicago, Illinois.

The most astonishing Polish sausage yet delivered to man:

Savory meat cuttings in snappy casings covered in mustard, peppers and grease dripped from babbysoft onions, sopped by the unassuming whiteness of a hotdog bun--so big you childishly worry that your stomach might get exploded by its lavishly peppery piquancy. Indeed, an Express Grill belch carries more weight than the whole of a dozen lesser Polishes.

$3.20

I sat on a bench, ate it and took the bus back to work.

I am abolishing the hyphen ("-"). I will not allow it to pollute my words. This is not to be confused with the dash, represented by two hyphens; I will continue to use that along with the semicolon.

Walking around Buckingham Fountain today, I spotted a gaggle of people on Segways. Upon closer inspection, I found that they were with a company creatively name "Chicago Segway Tours."

Call me crazy but this is one adventure I don't care to go on. Though, if I'm ever forced to undergo the indignity that is Segway travel, you can bet your ass I'm gonna do it naked with my dick painted red. Yeah. That's right. Red. I figure anything that's not sexual that's worth doing naked is worth doing with your dick painted red.

I know that making fun of the Segway is getting old but I seriously can't think of a more worthless invention. I appreciate the thought behind it but anyone in a condition where they might really need one is going to be old enough to be technophobic in that way where DVD players cause them to shit their pants (and old enough to shit their pants too). They'll be afraid to use the damn things no matter how often Dean Kamen goes on Jay Leno. This makes the official market of the Segway rich people who are too lazy to walk but not too lazy to stand. Sadly, that's a huge portion of society. Yay for capitalism!

Wearing Frank Zappa tshirts makes random people talk to you. It's alright I suppose but I wish these random people were more attractive. Zappa fans are ugly. Such is the way of the world.

There are too many places to eat in this city. I can never decide on what and just end up eating the same places over and over again.

It's also hard to get a normal size portion for a reasonable price. You can get giant portions for cheap as balls but a normal size meal costs almost the same. I don't see why half as much food should cost 80% as much.

I went to this chicken joint today. I just wanted a breast and some fries or something and it was absolutely impossible for me to order such a thing. If I wanted to eat there, I had to get a minimum of four pieces of chicken. Four! That's a lot of chicken. I left and got a taco from a place down the street.

As big of a fan I am of gluttonous excess, I try to keep that in moderation except on weekends. If you're stuffed full of food all the time, it doesn't taste as good. No really.

Some guy ran into me on his wheelchair. I was waiting on a corner and he just ran right into me from the left side. He said, "Watch where you're going." Figure that out.

Luckily, the walk light came on just in time so I could just walk away. I felt scolding some random wheelchairbound man in the middle of downtown would come across poorly regardless if he deserved it and I wasn't about to apologize for him running into my leg.