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Glossing Over the Details
Written on 2002-04-17, at 10:27 p.m.
dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

1 Ham and Swiss Sandwich

1 Peanut Butter Twix

6 Crispy Chicken Strips

1 Side Mashed Potatoes

1 Side Baked Beans

1 16oz. Dr. Pepper

John Live*

STANDARD HOMOSEXUAL EXPRESSION #42: Purse up your lips and glare accusingly.

*Not at all live

With five guestbook signings, three more people listing me as a favorite, and a few hundred hits just in the past day, I'm considering displaying my ineptitude at the French language on this page every day.

For anyone who might not know what I'm talking about, early this morning, my printer broke, leaving me with no way to print out my pitiful French assignment. To make matters worse, I also could not, for the life of me, locate a disk to save it on, so that I may later print it out at school. Therefore, being the intuitive person that I am, I decided to use the powerful medium of Diaryland to assist me in furthering my academic career. Taking what I had written, I copied it from Word, and pasted it as an entry here, thinking that I would simply do the same procedure in reverse once I arrived at the school's computer lab.

The school's computer lab which, incidentally, is closely monitored by the Cuban Nazi.

At least that's what I call him.

He's an old Cuban man who's sole job is to sit in a chair near the doors, and doze innocently until someone gives even the slightest impression of not signing in or out of the lab, for that is when he springs to life, barking orders and pointing at nonexistent things in the air until you're too frightened to even recall your social security number, and flee weeping from the building.

So the plan went off without a hitch, except for the part where I forgot to delete the entry after I printed it, so it sat here available for the world to read until I arrived home a few minutes ago, and removed it forever.

So what it boils down to is everyone who wanted to was able to see just how poor my grasp of a French text which isn't even spoken any longer.

C'est si bon.

My head is spinning.

Just a few days in the Events department, and I'm fighting to keep everything in line.

I'm trying to learn what essentially should be two weeks training as I do the job.

It's the sink-or-swim technique, and at the moment, I feel that I'm just doggy-paddling.

But it's incredibly fun, I must say.

The entire events department is a very tight knit group. It's probably the only job where you could say "Lick my balls, fucker" to a superior, and gain more respect.

In theory, of course.

There are five new people in the department now, all of us staring blankly at computer monitors, trying to understand exactly how we all came to be there.

One of these people is Nate.

This is Nate:

Nate and I get along very well. This is because we have similar tastes in almost everything, and because he says things like:

"You have to know how to do it, before you can do it."

I don't even remember what that was in reference to, but I do recall nearly driving off the road because we were laughing so hard.

Along with myself and Dan, Nate rounds out the new boyband comprised of only entertainment production coordinators called *NPRODUCTION.

I swear, we're going to be big one day.

And people will toss their undergarments at us on stage.

And speaking of that...there's this boy.

I know, it's a bad segue, but it gets you there.

There's a boy who works on the park entertainment side of things, as a Venue Coordinator. I've met him a few times, casually, and he seems nice.

Nice enough to ask out to dinner, perhaps?


Trouble is, any person I seem to inquire about him to runs of and tells him that I've been asking questions.

"I asked him, he's single, and interested."

"I talked to him, and told him he should do a little nosh with you."

And so forth.

Add to this the fact the I somehow seem to bump into him at every turn around the parks, and I've taken on all the vestments of a USDA certified stalker.

If I do ever work up the huevos to ask him out, I'm sure that I'll be greeted with a smile, and a restraining order.

Walking through the halls of school this afternoon, I couldn't help but feel that I looked pretty hetero.

With my khakis, and my little polo shirt on, I had a swagger that seemed to say,

"Hey, gotta vagina? Come on then."

But no fine looking chicas approached.

In retrospect, I belive that could have something to do with the dazzlingly bright, blinding glare from the sun's rays being reflected by the medically precise placement of my designer lip gloss.

Yeah, I know...they would have thrown themselves at me, were they not intimidated by the fact that it looked better on me.

Be well...


P.S.- For heaven's sake, read Danny. He's my best friend, and I think he'd write more often had he an audience.

Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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