Breathing down my neck, breathing down my neck.

I have a lot to say but I haven't quite found the lyrics yet to pull it out of me. I don't know why or how I got into the habit of using other people's words to express myself. I don't think it's a bad thing. It's me being a part of something else and someone else being a part of me. Sometimes being original is overrated.

Specifics aren't something I want to spell out right now. And it's not something that I really need to do. I have a wall of magazine pages in the kitchen that I haven't really looked at in weeks and I'm starting to not mind the cats so much. They claw at my jeans sometimes and break threads and start small holes that will eventually become bigger holes, but I tell myself that I'll like how it looks and move on. I didn't always used to be that way.

Sometimes I get too caught up in not knowing what to do. Or acting how I think I should be acting when, really, I'm just afraid I'll say something that someone just shouldn't say. That's not new for me. And neither is the insomnia that's been afflicting me since I started realizing that I'm not living my life how I want to. It's habit, and at this point I find it more comforting than problematic. It's my life now.

I'm writing this while sitting on my grandparents' old couch. I had always only seen it during the holidays when we'd go over for dinner and my uncles would sit on it with their arms around their respective wives and they'd talk about relatives and traveling and what was on the news. It's just weird to see something so familiar in a new setting. And for it to all the sudden be a completely new kind of familiar. It's a more comfortable couch now. I had to sleep on it one night and I hadn't slept that well in months.

You can probably guess pretty closely what kind of mood I'm in right now. I only write like this when I'm feeling like this. And it doesn't happen often, though I wish it would. Because sometimes I feel like I'm doing something right if I feel like this.

Part 2:

It's kind of crazy how arbitrary perfection is. And driving down the nighttime highway going exactly the speed limit while listening through an entire album is as close as I ever expect to get to perfection.

I like that boom boom pow.

Does anyone else find the song/video for Shakira's "She Wolf" to be incredibly irritating? Why can't she just stick to her roots/truthful hips and do songs with some latina flair? I'm disappointed. Also, there's a rabid yellow jacket dive-bombing itself into the ceiling in my basement. It's hitting the ceiling with so much force that it bounces down almost all the way to the floor before it flies back up to slam itself into the tile again. It's clearly suicidal, and I'm terribly afraid of what a non-death-fearing yellow jacket can do.

Save me, I'm lost.

Today I bought a flask for all the wrong reasons. It's no secret that there are plenty of attractive, trendy guys at Urban Outfitters, and even though UrbOut's not really my scene, I go for the sights—and to pretend that I can pull off some of those clothes.

The guy at the register was freaking sexy. Sexy and gay, I hope, although I'm pretty sure he is judging by how he was talking to his female coworker. But I couldn't just go up and talk to him. I had to buy something. I've kind of always wanted a flask, and this one was on sale for $10. So why not. I grabbed it and lingered around the register for a while, waiting for the right moment, trying to think of something to say to strike up a conversation. "This is my first flask" was all I could think of.

Anyway, I went to register with my flask and tried to be chill. And by describing my composure as "chill," you could already guess that I was acting in a completely affected manner that reeked of desperation and flaming homoeroticism. Not really the latter—I just wanted to use that phrase. So I put my flask on the counter. "Is that all?" he asked. "Yep."

Then he started talking to his female coworker across the room, yelling. Was he trying to avoid conversation with me? Or was he intimidated? Or trying to look popular and impress me? Clearly, I'm full of myself, but I did look pretty hott today. I told him I wanted to pay credit, and I did something awkward with my free hand while I held the stylus waiting to sign for my "first-ever" flask. I didn't tell him. It never came up.

At one point I tried to interject myself into the conversation he was having with his coworker. He said something about cookies. I think. So then I said something lame like "I want a cookie!" He ignored it and continued his conversation. I stopped trying after that. It was time to cut my losses. I am now the owner of a 6 oz. flask with an origami crane on it.

But today wasn't a complete failure, I guess. The employee at Banana Republic seemed vaguely interested in me. He should have pushed it a little harder; I totally would have buckled and bought that jacket.

And when I was turning the corner on my way to H&M, a tall guy in a green button-up was rounding the corner, too. I tried my best to make awkwardly flirtatious eye contact. You know, the kind that says, "I'm interested, but mostly because I'm curious what I'm capable of getting." I hooked him, and then proceeded to stare him down hardcore. He stared back, so I kept at it.

It lasted a few seconds, but then I had to break it off when it was getting too far along. But I'd like to consider it a mild success, and I'm still hoping for a "missed connections" posting on craigslist any minute now.

I live in my head.

The house is a mess and my family is coming home tomorrow. There's nothing in the fridge besides spoiled milk because my brother and I decided to use the money my mom left us for things other than groceries. I've been living off Chipotle burritos and spicy chicken sandwiches from Wendy's. I'm drinking a Rockstar right now—the only thing I got from Giant Eagle.

I have this playlist on iTunes called "obsessed" with all the songs I like to play on repeat. It changes a lot. In the past it usually had about 10 songs, most of which were either trendy or mellow or deep or had some other qualifying characteristic. Right now I have 20 songs on it, much of which is either from Katy Perry or Shiny Toy Guns. I'm not sure what this says about me, but I know that ever since I've become infatuated with Chelsea Handler, I've really started living up the gay lifestyle.

And by that I don't mean I'm indulging in guys. Because I definitely am not. And, to take a step backward, I don't really know what this has to do with Chelsea, but I'm positive she's where this got its start. Anyway, I have no boys. The only real attention I've gotten in the past two days were from a guy who commented on someone's Facebook status just to say that my profile picture was "smoking" and the other was from a guy who talked to me for 5 minutes before demanding pictures of my dick. Needless to say, I'm not in any real rush to pursue anything with either of them.

I found out about a PAID communication internship today. That's right—it pays. This is excellent timing because I'm pretty sure my boss hates me ever since he found out I was looking for other jobs. I'm going to find out more about it tomorrow, but they're looking for three interns to be selected by September. I think I have a decent shot at this, and if I do get it, things will really fall into line. I'd have to keep a few hours at Oxley's still—unless I get that job at the new library's cafe—but a few hours is better than three closing shifts per week. I've been looking and looking for a good excuse to drop that, but I'm trying this new thing where I don't complain as much. I think it's working out.

Tempo Magazine. I never get sick of hearing it. It sounds so modern and trendy and has a slightly gay hint to it. I think. That's probably just me, actually. But I'm really exciting to keep working on it. I've done a few sample print ads and a sample cover to test out fonts. I'm in talks with faculty who might be interesting in advising the student organization (that I have yet to officially form), but I'm really excited that I just used the phrase "in talks." It makes me feel really professional.

Since this is the last night I have the house to myself, and since I have no boys, I'm taking the opportunity to sing everything in my iTunes library. So far, it's going well.

The Atlantic was born today.

I have about an hour to decide whether I want to spend the night at home or go to Columbus. If I stay here, it will be with 3423498 high schoolers right outside my door drinking beer and doing disgusting straight-guy things. I wouldn't be able to leave my room—what if I get hungry? If I go to Columbus, I'd have to pack things, drive two hours in my car all while trying to avoid looking at the glowing check-engine so I can better pretend that nothing's wrong. Blogging is my current form of procrastination in making this decision.

I read Chelsea Handler's Are You There, Vodka book and, not only was it the only book I've read cover-to-cover in well over a year, but it's probably one of my favorite books. I know it's not trendy to like books like this, and I know that as a smart college student I should like better books like The Great Gatsby and Atlas Shrugged, but fuck it. Those books are boring. Chelsea writes how I want to write, and she writes about what I would write about if I had the guts/sex life she does. I decided I'm going to write my own version of her My Horizontal Life, only it'll be more pathetic and tell stories about all the times I tried to get boys and failed.

I'm starting a magazine. Tempo. It's going to be an LGBT magazine at Ohio State. I'm still shopping for an adviser and deciding how pretentiously to word the "constitution" that I have to write, but it's coming together. I went to the library today to check out magazines. I was sad when I realized I couldn't check out the latest issues on display, and the library was closing in a half hour so I couldn't sit there and read them. Then I noticed what appeared to be a library-regular mill on over to the magazine section, find what she wanted, and then she lifted up the shelf to reveal stacks of older issues behind it. "Holy fuck" were the words that ran across my mind. I abandoned the magazines I had collected in my hands and grabbed a pile each of Harper's Bazaar, GQ and Vogue. I then tried to not look gay as I checked them out (along with My Horizontal Life, which I had on reserve).

I was leafing through them all as I watched Legally Blonde and realized that it's probably one of the better movies I've ever seen. Then the sequel came on and I rethought my previous thoughts. But anyway, I was checking out the magazine for layouts that I liked, or photographs, or fonts or pairings of fonts. I couldn't care less about content.

I've developed this habit of checking the "Missed Connections" section of craigslist every few days for the cities I've been in. I know it's a long shot, but I'm really hoping my pathetic attempts at making flirtatious eye contact with every possible gay guy that I see will land me a posting. So far, it hasn't. I'm still not even sure if I'd actually reply to one if it did mention (or seem to mention) me. I think it would depend on things like grammar, the number of flaming emoticons and their interpretation of what I was doing. I'll assign point values to these things later; I feel like I have a while before any serious chance of getting posted about.

That planet Earth turns slowly.

If all goes well, I will have my own car by this time tomorrow and I will be in Columbus making YouTube-worthy videos with Jenna. I think I will name the car Ian, and I will hope that it will last long enough to justify the debt that it's putting me in right now. Ian is a white four-door 2002 Toyota Echo. It's so cute and small and maneuvery—I just want to wiggle it down the highway all day.

So I turned 20 at a casino in Niagara Falls where I was legally allowed to buy drinks at the bar—which I really suck at and need much more practice. We actually came out ahead on the penny slots, too, which was pretty cool. I'm so impressed that I didn't become a gambling addict, because I feel like I could so easily slip into that lifestyle. I should also mention that I was dressed fantastically. I finally found a use for my amazingly gay vest from Buckle. And my trendy jeans and striped undershirt just made it. I was fo' sho' the best dressed guy around, and yes I'm bragging about it it was my birthday dammit.

Toronto was sweeeeeeeeet. (Oh yeah, I somehow developed that annoying habit of repeating letters for emphasis. I don't know when this started or when it will stop.) But Toronto, so much fun. We only had enough time for a few hours of walking, so we went by the university, along the shopping district—sooooo many gays—and then down Church Street (Avenue?), which is apparently the gay street. And then our last stop was the Eaton Centre, which was is a HUGE mall. I mostly just wanted to go to the Apple store so I could Facebook and pretend I had an iPhone. Oh, and by "we" I mean my cousin Michelle and I.

But then after Toronto, we went up to Rice Lake for our annual fishing trip with extended family and all. Oh my God it was horrible. I don't know why I came—I really don't even think Toronto compensated for the boredom and isolation I felt. It wasn't until the last day there that I found out that our "resort" had free wifi. I was so pissed. But I got online and just stared at Facebook for a few hours. It was enough to get me through that last day.

I'm the leader of the crowd and my game is really slick.

Night skies turn auburn

and fire showers to the earth

how does the dream end?

I think I was just out of motivation. But that shouldn't be a problem anymore.