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First Gay of School
Written on 2002-01-12, at 12:00 a.m.
*The people at www.webshots.com are moving their servers today, so don't worry if you see a broken link at the top of the page...*

dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Orange Juice

1 Banana

1 Cheeseburger (Ketchup, Mustard, Tomato, Lettuce)

1 Side French Fries

1 Bag Skittles

2 Bowls Corn Pops (Dry)

2 Helpings Meat Loaf

1 Side Macaroni and Cheese

1 Side Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

1 Venti Chai Latté

John Live*

Grr...I hear Mariah Carey on TV...Grr...

*Not at all live

Did you know I'm insane?

I think I am, at least.

Maybe not so much insane, as more OCD than I'd like to admit.

But then again, I think that everyone is.

Do this tomorrow...Keep track of all the little things you do during the day, especially while getting ready in the morning.

For no specific reason, I kept close tabs on my morning procedure this week...and it's a little frightening.

The first thing I do is get out of bed, walk into the bathroom, walk back out to find some underwear (yeah, I sleep naked, ooh, aren't you all hot now?), put on either boxers or my pajama pants, walk back into the bathroom, and THEN use the facilities.

And that's just the beginning.

I begin with deodorant, picking it up, flipping it like I'm a bartender in the movie "Cocktail", twisting the dispenser four times, and applying it to the left, then right arms.

I then turn on warm water, splash my face, dry it, wet it again, and use my face wash.

After rinsing, I move to the mouth, pouring a shot of Listerine into the cap of the bottle, then....get this, I pour half of it out, and add just a little more before swishing.

"Heeeeeeey, way to be creepy there, John."

While brushing, I begin with my left hand, working on the right side of my mouth, then switch it up to the side, making sure every stroke to one side is mimicked in a frightening symmetry of psychosis.

I then brush my tongue, rinse, brush it again, and rinse one last time.

As for my contacts, I'll rub both my eyes, pick up the contact case, hold it under warm water, tap it twice...mind you, twice, on the counter, put it under the water again, and then put them in, right, then left.

There were a few other things that I either don't recall, or have tried to block out perhaps.

The only glimmer of hope I have is that while shaving, I didn't notice anything similar to the other tasks.

Now, I don't shave every day, and because of that, I think that the other things may be just a strange little ritual I've fallen into.

Or maybe it means that in a few years I'll be opening and closing the door 14 times, turning the light on and off 21 times, and washing my hands 7 times before beginning.

Douglas Adams fans take note, those numbers add up to "42", which was unintentional, but pretty darn cool.

Oh yes...the first day of school, it almost slipped my mind.

Well, for some reason, though I was going on about four hours of sleep, my body clock woke me up about 30 minutes before my Sony clock was supposed to.

After getting ready (see above), I was off to fight the traffic.

Only thing is, there was none...

I got out early enough to miss the 8:20-9:00 rush. Good day, so far...

I got to school, and got a parking spot.

In one of the PAVED LOTS!

True, it was the farthest lot from the campus, but it was a PAVED. LOT.

My first class is Math, of course. Leave it to me to pick a 9am class that puts me to sleep faster than the opening notes to "CATS".

Surviving Math, I had two hours to kill until my next class. This is only the case on Wednesdays, as the class has a lab on Monday and Friday. So on those days, like today, I have only an hour.

This being a Wednesday, I decide to go to the cafeteria to kill some time.

Getting some food, and being the anti-social person I am, I sit at a table by myself, eat a sandwich, drink some milk, and afterwards, take out my book, to do some reading (Yeah, still haven't finished "Lord of the Rings", thanks). It was nearly noon at this point, and the cafeteria was getting quite full.

"Excuse me."

I look up, meeting the eyes of the security guard I long ago dubbed "Crazy Jose", the reasons for which include the fact that he dances in front of his golf cart while directing traffic, singing something incomprehensible even to Spanish speakers, I believe.

"Yes." I reply.

"Are you done eating?"

Looking at the banana peel, napkin, and pool of crumb-infested ketchup on my plate, I considered what countries would recognize that as a half-consumed entreé, but could think of none offhand.

"Why, yes I am."

"Alright, well there are people waiting for tables."

"But...I'm reading." I say.

"This isn't the place for that." he snaps.

"A school isn't the place for reading?" I asked, feeling confrontational.

"No." he says, looking more than a little confused at that question.

"Well, could you tell my Literature professor that? It would really alleviate my workload this semester."

"I'm...not a teacher..." he stutters.

No you're not Jose...no, you're not.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what to make of this belligerent faggot smiling up at him.

His fears were washed away however, when I said...

"Look at that, almost class time...keep up the good work."

...collected my things, and swished out of the room.

While sitting in my Medical Ethics class, I was forced to keep myself under control, and not succumb to fits of laughter when my professor, a very distinguished fifty-something woman says, in regard to her open-door policy:

"If you've got a problem, hey, I'll solve it."

I was waiting for the next words out of her mouth to be:

"Check out your notes while my TA revolves it..."

"Ethics, ethics baby...so deep, so deep"

French turned out to be far less frightening than I though it would be.

Turns out, it IS just like conduisant une bicyclette.

I fell right back into speaking, and so far, it seems that I'm the most fluent in the class of eight people who I believe now hate me, and have branded me as the "l'animal de compagnie du professeur", or, the teacher's pet.

The reasoning for this falls solely on the fact that I'm a homosexual.

No no, not that there's blatent homophobia in the classroom, but for the fact that I was the only person in the class who knew who Yves Saint Laurent was, and why he was currently in the news. Because of this, my professor and I launched the class into a discussion of French couture, and who was responsible for what looks.

The only thing which concerned me was the fact that she called my look "bohemian". Hmm, I'm not sure how to take that, but it does make me happy that there are two Johns in the class, and she calls one by his full name, and addresses me as "John a la mode", which in fact means "in style", and has nothing at all to do with ice cream.

Betcha didn't know that.

Here's the paragraph where I'd talk about my Environmental Systems class.

Only the teacher didn't show up.

And being a Monday-Wednesday class, I didn't have it today, so we'll have to get to that later.

Though, after waiting twenty minutes, we all left, and a man who looked very science-teacher-ish went zooming past me as I walked out of the building, clip-on tie trailing him like a polyester kite.

It was incredibly cold here this past week.

Well, low 30's, cold for Florida, that is.

This weather has claimed one casualty so far, the victim being a rather ornate moth residing on my landing.

One morning, I passed, saw him sitting there, still, noble, and I said,

"Hi there, excuse me..."

And I stepped wide, so as to not disturb him.

Later that day, I got home, and he was still there.

"Meditating, eh? I like me a Zen insect, carry on then."

In case you think this is for comedy's sake, follow me around one day.

Two days later, I finally realized his perseverance was in fact rigor mortis. This epiphany came to me as I passed a procession of ants carrying away his carcass, still poised in that regal stance.

"Hmm...ain't that a bitch?" I though.

I'm not one who can keep up with quotes even half as well as Tracy can, but this one stuck in my mind, perhaps because I think it ensures me a place in eternal damnation.

It was said by me in reference to a friend who was excited about seeing Bryan Adams in concert:

Him: "Oh come on...Bryan Adams rocks!"

Me: "What? No...Bryan Adams wouldn't rock even if he was autistic."

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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