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Where Has the Time Gone?
Written on 2001-12-02, at 1:41 a.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Order Fried Chicken

1 Side Baked Beans

1 Side Ambrosia (for those of you who don't know what that is, it's mini-marshmallows, Cool-Whip, and Pineapple chunks all mixed together...Mmm...)

2 Seay's Lollipops (Thanks Dan!)

2 Smirnoff Ices

5 Cigarettes

John Live*

I feel I must explain this horrible, horrible photo...You see, my halogen lamp exploded the other day, no, really...it exploded. I went to turn it on, and it went *FWAAAAAAT*. So between the grotesquely un-flattering florescent light of the kitchen, and the fact that I look like I'm recieving a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands...

...it's not a good picture.

*Not at all live

Remember the angst I felt over having left my precious bag of Godiva chocolate in Sephora on Thursday evening?

Well, as my friend Cesar and I are shopping Friday afternoon, we go into Sephora, so I could show him a few things. One of the uni-gloved associates looks at me, and runs to the back.


I thought so.

He comes back out with my little gold bag of Godiva, saying...

"Here you go...we didn't know when you'd be coming back in, so I put this in the safe for you."

They put it...




I LOVE that.

Store keys, bank deposits, alarm codes, John's wayward chocolate.

Needless to say, my love for all things Sephora doubled yesterday.

I got a haircut on Wednesday, and along with it, a new hairstyle.

I think it looks trés chic, the "cutting" edge of the current hair trends (notice the pun). My friends, however, think that I look like a lesbian.

"Oh no...I love it...but you look like a lesbian."

"Hey, really, it looks great, just a tad dyke-ish."

And so forth.

But I...I do not care.


Well, because I know that they're just jealous that they weren't asked to be in the 2002 International Hair Show and Expo.

(The above means that I was.)

So now in addition to being a famous runway model, I'll now be a famous hair model too.

All I have to do now is have someone discover my wrists, and it's braclet and watch photo shoots galore.

So, it's December 1st.

Well, it's technically the 2nd now, but who's counting...

It's so insane that it's December.

Not for the fact that I can still walk around outside in a tank top, shorts, and sandals, and still be warm...

But for the fact that it's D-E-C-E-M-B-E-R.

I don't want to be one of those people who, on the first of every month past January says...

"Wow, it's ________ already! Gee whiz, where does the time go?"

But, I am that person, sans the "gee whiz" part.

I said that at work all day, as someone would write a check, or ask the date, I'd say...

"It's December 1st. Hey, it's the first, can you believe that?"

As if someone would accept my challenge of disbelief, take the counterpoint, and enter into a heated argument as to the validity of the Gregorian calendar.

To me, this is just another month, as it is to many people. It's just a time where people shop a lot more, and get one or two days off, then it's right back at it.

Somewhere between drivers license and 20, time just decided to turn it's back to all laws of reason, and assume that accelerated "summer vacation" pace three-hundred sixty-five days a year.

I realized that I no longer plan activites, outings, road trips, for when I feel like it, but I now plan things around my paychecks.

I now see the season known as "summer" as the time when I have to double the workload at school by taking the dreaded collegiate "mini-mesters", having marathon sittings of classes which I'm forced remain upright and alert for.

But the thing that really killed me was this...

Every year, Burger King does a "food for grades" thing, where kids bring in their report cards, and you get so-and-so for an "A", something else for a "B", whatever for a "C", and anything below that, they give you a job.

I brought my college report in last year, and asked for my Whopper, Jr.

"Oh, no sir...we don't do that for colleges."

"What?" I asked..."Why not?"

"Well this is for kids, you're an adult."

The word "adult" echoed in my head like a scene from a bad soap opera, where the character who has severe amnesia hears something that triggers her memory back.


I'm an adult.

I don't think I've been the same since.

I say to people, "I can't, I have to work in the morning."

Or, "Sorry, gotta be up early for school."

I have no idea when these phrases entered my vocabulary, but I sure as hell want them out.

My freshman year of college, I could stay out all night drinking, smoking pot, and doing the occasional line of coke, or hit of ectasy, go to class at 8am, put in a full day of work afterwards, and be fresh as a daisy to do it all again the next evening.

I want those days back.

Well, minus the drugs.

Well, minus the drugs minus pot.

Because pot's ok.

Woody Harrelson does it.

My life now is controlled by a sleek silver Palm Pilot, and an alarm clock who I believe gets off on seeing me at my absolute worst.

My absolute worst being now anything less than six hours of sleep.

I don't want to go to work.

I don't want to write papers on how the Harlem renaissance affected the Civil Rights movement.

I want to run through a damned sprinkler, and fall asleep smiling while I wait for Santa Claus.

Be well...



Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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