you get an empty case of whip-its and a girlfriend with a beeper

This is a continuation of the previous post. I am safely home at 3:08 AM as promised to my roommate in the previous blog.

I should be glad to be a pedestrian this thirtieth of November, aught-four. For today I bore witness to two bits of roadside carnage. First, at about noon, I heard a terrible skidding and thumping, even human-sounding noises, for a short moment outside my upstairs apartment. After gathering the stomach for a minute or two, to check out what I suspected was a traffic accident, I peered from the balcony to see a man trapped under the roof of his cheap sports car. The car had actually flipped and skidded just feet from a parked car. The ambulance and cop car bit ensued, and later I saw a man sweeping up glass.

The second and most recent accident viewed and witnessed audibly occured as I was walking from the web café described in the previous post. To put it bluntly, a dude nailed this trash can and made one helluva racket. I heard sirens a bit later in my walk. This all made me wonder if some event of recklessness on the road is the cause of many of the sirens I hear several times a day in this city.

Thanksgiving cannot go without notice. The highlight of my Thanksgiving festivities was, to put it bluntly, busting that monster nitrous hit off the whip cream can in the wee hours of the night. I seem to be doing well with the words tonight, but for two days after the hit was taken a couple of times my inner voice would say completely grammatically correct sentences to me such as, "I don't think I will," and figuring out if they actually were grammatically correct took as much effort as decoding a string of negatives such as, "That isn't not impolite." It just didn't sound like proper English, though it was. For the days that have followed the two day grammar trip I've been muttering little somethings under my breath about nitrous inhalation each time I get a bit confused by something. It's probably worked its way out by now, however.

The big question is, however, what I am doing in Milwaukee. I'm still simply taking up space, without work or plans for education. Granted I'm doing it in style, publishing epic tales dealing with mental illness and only drinking Coke products, but I panic when I'm face to face with a new face, and the face asks, "So what do you do?" It'd be fun to play with the question, pretend it's a proposition for sex or a job offer for a housekeeper. What it comes down to is that regular work would cut into my sleep and alone-with-computer time, and education feels like that thing that was going to relieve me of any worries about money. I've gotten used to poverty, my past career goals seem chumpish when having my love of writing in mind, so what's left? I have a book the size of a dictionary with addresses to which I can send my work. Consider me in pursuit.

that's what you get when there's no time on the meter

Before leaving my apartment to accompany a friend to the dimly lit web café from which I write now, Blogger.com was encountering fatal errors, but I was notified that the engineers were on it. Apparently they make good time. It's a bit steamy in here, and I could only afford one half hour of access time. The music is thumpy, and time is ticking.

This blog is not so much of a dedication to a long time friend I met in the confines of the MSOE dormitories as it is a beacon to him. He'd make brief appearances in the chat windows on my screens toward the end. Most of the messages were of plans to live with a friend in Canada. He and I are taking some time off from school. My plans to return are somewhat more definite than his indefinite plans to travel. He enjoyed my blogs more than anyone I knew for the two years we spent in the cinderblock cubicles. It's my hope that his diagnosed personality disorder hasn't landed him in an institution. If he's reading this, he'll know I'm speaking of him and that it's due time for a contact. Enjoy the show.

My roommate and I are averaging about three disagreements per day, which is nice and healthy except that recently I've made physical threats against him. My actually hurting him is laughable. He could pound the shinola out of my flabby frame, he being a couple inches taller than I and being an athletically avid cyclist. The disagreements are generally nonviolent in content. At this point in the time I've known my roommate it occurs that after a few straight days of being near him I begin to notice nuances in the already dopey comportment of himself. He'll trail off a sentence such as, "And that was really... .... .... ...."--"COOL?!" I want to shout to finish the sentence. There are girl troubles I'd care not to delve into, but include a small amount of regret on my part. To finish this paragraph by describing him in one inflected word, imagine a little girl in a frilly white dress with the sun shining behind her, standing on a grassy hilltop... The cameraman zooms in as she licks her lollipop and simply squeaks the word, "Nice!" No, I can't leave the topic of my dear roomie in such a state of mockery. He really is nice, a little too nice is what I'm getting at. Damn personable, he is. That rings of more stature for the man.

The friend, whom I am seeking through this blog, appreciated, or maybe just took note of, the disjointedness in my blogs. Take note here! My conscious mind has been consuming me of late. Seems I can't take a walk to enjoy the cityscape without dissecting a minute detail at every turn. The details could be a brick pattern in a building or on a sidewalk, or discoloration in anything. I then have no choice but to reduce the detail to something like the plot of a child's comic strip, mnemonically, rhythmically, mechanically broken down and stored in memory. This experience becomes something like déjà vu, or at least it has some of the same aggravating qualities.

Another bothersome past time my mind has been occupying itself with is making decisions by a ghost's standards. Some might argue that these are unconscious decisions one makes for oneself and are based on upbringing, personal taste, fate, and of course genetics. There is a low voice in my head saying things like, "That's not cool," "What would 'I' think of that?" 'I' being the mysterious opinionated ghost in my skull. I believe the ghost is exactly that, a ghost. When I was younger I based much of my activities and purchases on what two or three people I admired might think of the activities and purchases. These people have not died, at least I hope not. But, in the void that remained when their voices left, and I became a more self-defined adult, there lingers an approval-withholding ghoul.

I'm out of time, in fact I'm in the negatives, and my stomach just flipped over thinking about facing the coffee-cracked-out shaky-handed guy at the desk about the $3.00 I owe for the extra time. I wasn't even once seized by the urge to turn around and scream, "Quiet!" in here. It's smoky and loud in here, yet it doesn't slow the flow. To my friend: Contact me. To my roommate: I'll be home around three.

a formal apology to MSOE

No, this is not actually a formal apology to MSOE, the Milwaukee School of Engineering, but it is a composition regarding my relationship with the institution of higher learning as the relationship stands now. Much of what happened during the summer of 2004 concerning myself and the school is documented in the section "the gods` bananas" and explains why I am currently under the status of not being allowed on the school's property. I write this as a sort of therapy session in order to see if I can avoid spending time with an actual therapist rehashing the events which led me to a state of city-region-avoidance as well as the great deal of guilt and fear that creeps up on me from time to time. If I do not successfully avoid formal therapy, at least this will create some mental framework to go on as I deliver the monologue of the epic to the paid professional.

It could have ended the day it began. As is documented in more detail in the rather lengthy literary project in the link above, I had a mental break one day into finals week the year 2004 in the dorms at the Milwaukee School of Engineering. I am bipolar and have been since I was eighteen years of age. These "breaks" (I hate the word "episode".) have been becoming a bit more intense with each occurance, and this time I was in and out of police cars and hospitals for three months. The reason it could have ended the day it began, with the $167.00 disorderly conduct ticket and a horrible relationship with the housing director who came to see me minutes before I was slugging a man in the neck and weaving between cars to my ultimate pepper spraying, was because I didn't have to return to MSOE grounds, nor did I have to do what I did somewhere inbetween hospital stays. I embarrassed myself royally on both occassions.

Just how badly did I disgrace MSOE, the electronics profession, my future as an engineer, and the name of love itself? I'm told again and again that it's not my fault. In retrospect I can clearly see how crazy some of the things I've done were whacked far out of line, but afterall, I came up with the ideas to do these things, and no one could tell me I wasn't in my right mind when I did them. So, I accept much of the blame. It's not as easy to forget about a super-amplified social taboo as it must be to tell someone to do so.

There are two points I am concerned about and that have me hung up with fear. To tell the truth, the first I will tell about made me feel a bit cool for some time, even after I was released from the final hospital. I called a girl. Not any girl. A girl I didn't know. I had had nothing less than an absolutely adoring crush on her for the two years I had attended MSOE. I found out her name; she was a resident advisor, which means she reigned over a floor of the dorms. Between two of the hospital stays, I looked her up on the student directory, found out her phone number, went home, and began calling. I never, to this day, have spoken to her. I must correct myself. I said hello as I was moving out. That was it. In any case, I only got her answering machine, to which I left sweet message after sweet creepy message... on into when I was admitted to the hospital the next time.

This next time is the worst. I went to MSOE at the same time I was calling this girl. It was raining. I needed to get back into the buildings in order to use the Internet and study for an exam. I figured a perk would maybe be seeing my phone victim around. Please keep in mind, I was half-insane. I am not this creepy when I am well, not nearly. In any case, the woman in charge of changing permissions on the identification cards was out for a while. I wasn't allowed on MSOE property so I decided to wait on the corner by the dormitory buildings. Apparently because it was raining, I must have been in need of an emergency detention by a Milwaukee police officer because no one in their right mind stands out in the rain and smokes cigarettes, dropping them in puddles and relighting them almost magically.

Who saw the arrest? Who knows? It was an arrest because I shouted "Mirandize me!" to which they obliged. Now I'll get down to it. I fear MSOE students because of what they may know about me. Many probably saw the scene of running out of the dorms during finals week. I'm sure this stunningly attractive girl I was calling has many friends. And, she exists out there too. (I still live in Milwaukee. More on that soon.) I see them most days I wander out, and I wonder what they know. I wonder if I'll soon be approached. I wonder what I'd do if I met the girl I called walking head on down the sidewalk. I was in such a manic state that I don't recall if I told her I loved her. I pray I didn't and kept it at least somewhat cool.

If I someday soon decide to go back to MSOE, I will have to sit in suspicion in classrooms filled with people who may have seen me, or know something about the happenings. I am tempted to wait a full four years before going back to that school, just to make sure I am not enrolled in a class with the girl I called so many times. I will have to face teachers with an explanation to my absence and to what they might have heard. It is encouraging that the one teacher I contacted about the final she didn't make me take simply said, "I hope you are feeling better." It's ignorance, but it comes across heartfelt in being so.

Perhaps I shouldn't give a shit about the stigma, but I do. I avoid the entire MSOE campus when taking outings downtown. The walk isn't any longer, but it would be nice to have the option of walking through it. I see the campus shuttle van here and there around town and my knuckles turn white. Obviously I have a phobia of anything associated with the place. If I were stronger, I may walk through it and say hello to the people whom I recognize. If I were even stronger still, I might move away to another city and start up my education there. Or is that weakness?

This is where the therapist would come in with lots of talk about "issues." I can't predict what advice one would give me. I am almost curious enough to actively seek one. It would be great if she could say one phrase like, "Just imagine them all wearing Santa caps," and it would all go away. I pray it's not a repetitive stroking of my psyche with, "You've got nothing to be ashamed of." Like hell I don't.

Tell me I'm not a decent writer. Perhaps electronics was a cop-out for getting a real job. When a reference is made to something I learned at school, I get a bit sick. Maybe it's guilt for being in question of continuing, or maybe it's got to do with the perceived stigma toward me at that place. For the time being I ramble on with plenty of time to write, with no plans for the future. I often think, if only I could erase it from everyone's memory. Simply erasing the calling of the girl would help dramatically.

Hopefully the reader can get some entertainment out of my misery. After all, I don't run this blog solely for my health. I am finished, for now. Perhaps this will come out in a nice room with a fish tank and lots of psychology books neatly arranged on shelves, though maybe not. Somehow I will rise above this mess.