Shiiiet, it's been a long day. I guess the weirdness started when my brother wanted to borrow the car for grocery shopping. I was riding shotgun, JW was in the back. As my brother pulled into a one way street, he neglected to look against traffic. The result was a middle aged woman and her bicycle being propelled violently away from the hood of my car. Brian went to see if she was all right, JW and I stayed in the car and tried to avoid laughing. To make matters only more interesting, we ended up giving her a ride. You can imagine how awkward that was. For Brian anyway.
After he had parted ways with her, we finally got to go grocery shopping. That was all fine and good but when we got home, the beer was dropped on the porch. Only 7 of the 12 survived, and I got a little broken glass in my mouth from one of them. No fun. Eventually the sun went down, and the original plan was set into motion.
Li'l Jonnie Dunne (#1) was in town on a track meet. He told JW and myself which motel he'd be staying at, so we took that as an open invitation for invasion. After acquiring Kristine, our designated driver/photographer, we got a buzz on, strapped on our ninja suits, and headed for the La Quinta Inn. Kristine walked around the front desk in civilian clothing, looking quite natural. She then opened the back door for JW and myself. It was close to midnight, if I recall. We scoured the building asking everyone we saw if they knew Jonnie Dunne. At one point we ran into the track coach who informed us we couldn't see him because his roommate was asleep, and his roommate had a race the next day. Whateva. Rationalizing with ninjas is a fools venture. Avoiding the coach by going to the third floor seemed fruitful, for we found a young lad more than happy to take us to Jonnie. He got us into the room, and the struggle began. Force was employed, but finally our superior speech skills beat him into submission, and he allowed us to escort him without duct tape, which was good, because we forgot it in the car.
By this time a number of people had heard the comotion and come into the halls to see what was going on. A semi-circle consisting of the coaches and some students formed between us and the exit. Questions were asked, to which JW responded, "We are just coming to see Jonnie Dunne, because he is number one."
"Yes, Jonnie Dunne is number one." I followed with. We both held our index fingers in the air, signaling he was number one.
Some bulkier kid was asking if Jonnie was number one at wrestling and so on, I don't remember what all. He proved quite quickly he wasn't worth listening to so he has largely eluded my memory. Oh, and at one point I pulled a 7-inch dildo out of my ninja suit and pointed it at Jonnie's face. Some girl screemed, "That ninja has a penis!" so I decided to put it back in hiding because the coach seemed uncomfortable enough as things were. We smoothly escorted Jonnie back to his room, and all was well. Except for how much trouble he'll be in and how many people lost sleep and...whateva.
Just got home from a walk. Went to a park with Lorq, and since it was at night, there wasn't really anyone around. A guy rode up on his bike to a nearby water fountain, and I assumed he was going to offer us methamphetimines or some other controlled substance, like most people who bike around Eugene at night. Instead it just appeared that he was a user. He yelled, "How ya doing?" and we responded with weak remarks to be polite but not encourage excessive interaction. He kept drinking water and talking about being thirsty, and as a police car began spot lighting the park we decided it would be a fine time to go home. As we passed him, his strange neck and back movements became much more pronounced, as did his bugged out eyes. We also noticed blood running from his nose and mouth. The way the pale light caught his battered, narcotic laced face was kind of spooky. He kept talking about drinking water as he looked at us, and we told him to take it easy and took off.
When I have jobs, it seems like I mostly write about work. Now that I'm unemployed, plasma giving is the reoccuring theme in my literature. I just wanted to let you know that I was aware of this, and also start an entry with something besides, "Today, when I was giving plasma..." So anyway, today, when I was giving plasma, I was on the last cell return where the machine pumps all the blood cells back in your arm through a hose. Being a scientist at heart, I devised an awesome experiment. I pinched the hose as hard as possible between my thumb and index finger, wondering if it would confuse the machine, or if my arm would start squirting blood. At which end would the pressure be most effected? Evidently the machine. It made a loud clicking sound followed by a seemingly endless "BEEEEEEEEEEEEP" that rang through the clinic until a worker lady ran up and hit buttons and the sound stopped. She stared deep into the machine while uncertainty and concern crept over her face, augmenting her features. A guy employee, who reportedly said, "What the hell is that?" when the sound began also joined the curiosity. Ridiculously proud of myself, it was difficult not to laugh and as I kept beginning to smile I would force myself to look worried, which are two very difficult expressions to mix, so I kept burying my face in my shoulder until I could hold my composure. They turned it back on after deciding it was "fine" and my day was mostly downhill from there.
My roommate, Lorq, works at Subway. The one in the main drag. It's open until 3 a.m. A crew of folks, including JW who had taken some prescriptions not prescribed to him, and myself were among the crew. Some drunk dumbasses came in asked some stupid questions then left. They stood outside until they had the bright idea to moon us while we were eating. They pressed their bare asses against the glass and the balance was apparently too much for one of them, because he face planted on the sidewalk. That made me happy. They came back in though, and started asking Lorq for free food. He said he couldn't give anything away, and they mooned him. He threatened to call the police and they ran off like frightened children. It was all right.
Gave plasma, as I so often do. On my way out I decided to use the restroom. There was an old guy cleaning the counter that asked how I was doing. I responded, "Pretty good, and yourself?" on my way to a urinal, which I then proceeded to position myself with. He went on to say something in his gravely voice to the effect of, "Oh, I'm good. Is it sunny out there? Days like this, you go down town and look at all the naked girls. They do get naked on days like this too. And you look and they like, 'That mutha fucka's lookin' at me!' and you like 'yeah I'm lookin' at you, lotsa people'd like to look, like Ray Charles, he'd like to look but he can't see anything." After a momentary pause and absolutely no urine flow, I shot back: "Yeah...um, yeah." "You already donate? You still got two hours of sun to sit on the porch and drink beer." Most plasma clinic employees discourage drinking within 24 hours of donating, but not this character. We proceeded to talk about beer for a moment before I gracefully departed to go drink beer.