and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

DUDE.

No one must know; this I beg of you. You must find a projector, because the finest of the B cinematic experiences is soon to be in my possession. I'm not even talking about Death Race 2K, here. I can't actually tell you the name of the movie, but I can tell you it's gonna be good. And by "good" I mean ASS.

And I am requesting you apartment to bake in. Dude. You have no idea. Remember, this is a secret. You get the projector. You get the white screen. How much room is there in your loft? Exactly. A BIG WHITE SHEET, buddy. I will do the baking. January 1st, we consume an ungodly amount of pancake, french toast, eggs benedict . . . right? Am I right? Right. We have as of this moment two fine titles. A third will surely be produced, and of course, we have the Tony Curtis classic to fall back on. And I meeself never saw the bed that eats.

I've been playing party poker for hours. Amassed 2 million. In nothing. I mean, that's the problem. The only time it means something is when I go all in . . . And even then only sometimes do I get the endocrine response where my body flushes with . . . something, as if I just saw a cute girl or I just snuck in to a movie. That's what theft is about, says alex. Sensation seeking. Irony is that I should be writing a paper about this. Cortisol. Dopamine to the nucleus accumbens.

The folks playing poker are interesting. Don't type much. I think it's a combination of not typing well, and not having a great sense of humor. Flunk - Blue Monday. Damn. It's on my live365. I know this song . . .

Scratch that, dude. You may tell one person. Sewall. He must know. He must be present. I insist upon it. Last year was really half-ass. We did not party enough in TO. You must get your roomies involved, too. We must all sleep there. Awww, man, it's gonna be the best - I'm so stoked. Take it easy, Bra.

Dude. The present is slipping into the past, and it's unacceptable. Poker is slipping into the past. Damn. My leg is slipping into the past.

You know what the trouble with "salivary" testosterone is? Measurements can be substantially influenced during the process of sample collection, are susceptible to interference effects caused by the leakage of blood (plasma) into saliva, and are sensitive to storage conditions when samples have been archived. Now. Don't you feel better knowing that?

I tell the poker players that I hate them. It's really nice. Even better than telling the other motherfuckers that read this blog that I hate *them.* Not Marrissa or Rachel, if they're still reading. I don't really hate them. Because Rachel is nice to me. And Marrissa is contemptuous. Why is it that contempt from certain people really works? There's this chick in my lab from Sweden who's really contemptuous of my lab partner and myself. Or at least, that's how it comes across. It works. Why? I don't know. But it does.

I'm so excited for the new Wes Anderson flick . . . Bill Murray . . . Have you ever played 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon? It's fun.

Dude. I'm kind of sad to lose you as a slacker. It makes me a little sad. Because only a few people know how sheepish I am when I admit that I don't work hard, and even fewer actually sympathize. Damn.

But everyone's got shit. I actually relish my addictions. I don't often actually feel badly about myself. That's the amazing thing. At the end of the day, I really love this existence. It's hard not to, really.

Dude. You know what I forgot to tell the Dogz? My brother is expecting. In June. I will be an uncle. Damn.

Later, killa.