Why do I always get the most distracted right around exams time? All year long I fight to maintain competency in all of my classes, and I’d like to think that I do a pretty good job. But then, right when I need to focus on my classwork the most, my concentration fails me and trying to study 8 hours a day is like pulling teeth. Right now I’ve got two exams down and two to go, and my I’m running on fumes. Thursday is my last, most important and hardest exam of the year and I just can’t make myself study any more for it.

I’d really like to keep my GPA up, and I’m going to need a decent grade on this test. Maybe by admitting my impotence I’ll be able to buckle down and study my ass off for the next few days.

And as soon as the semester is officially over, I need to fully devote myself to the task of finding employment, preferably of both the full-time and law-related nature. I slept on this process all semester and now I’m relegated to personally soliciting as many law firms as I can just hoping that they’re in the market for an immensely intelligent and talented law student to help draft motions and research case law and sweep floors or whatever else they want me to do.

On an even more personal note, tomorrow is a very important day. It’s the day that our first full month’s rent is due for the apartment. It’s hard to believe that Brittany and I have only been together for 5 months and 27 days, and we already know that we’ll be together forever.

So, I don’t think I need to get a job, because I’ve had this website for a year and I’ve already made forty four bucks from google adsense!

Too bad they caught me when I made that bogus post about student loans just to get some ten dollar clicks. Damn you Google!

Hey, if you’re looking for a new media player, check out Songbirdnest it’s built on top of firefox and even though it’s only in 0.2 beta and it crashes sometimes it’s still pretty sweet.

And it has a plugin for QLOUD.COM and they’re working on last.fm support.

Here (In Your Arms) by Hellogoodbye

Damn it’s getting late, I’ve really got to get back to studying. Sitting in room 200 of the engineering building all night used to enable me to get some serious studying done. But ever since I’ve been using online note-taking tools which necessitates bringing my laptop, productivity’s been in a downhill slide. All the glorious entertainment that the internet has to offer has proven to be quite the distraction. Damn you YouTube and MySpace!

I went to Cleveland last night with Newman to see the Opie and Anthony Traveling Virus Tour, and had the time of my life. Everybody killed, especially Bob Kelly. We both got tons of pictures with the comics and characters, I’m going to post some to Myspace soon. Plus big time props to Newman for following Rich Vos through the crowd and all the way to the stage during his walk-on introduction, and being able to secure two VIP bracelets in the process.

*Update – Here’s a few of those pictures:

Myself and Mr. Bobby Kelly of Tourgasm fame

And with the boyishly handsome Opie, of The Opie and Anthony Show

• Well, my time in Charleston is coming quickly to an end. I thought I’d recount some of the memorable moments in no particular order from my summer camp experience in the Palmetto State. In the last two months I…

Was physically removed from a bar (KC Mulligan’s) after drinking only half of one beer because my driver’s license has my height incorrectly listed as 6′ 7″.

Went to a Riverdogs game with FriendOne for Bible Belt Buckle Giveaway Day, arrived in the middle of the second and immediately purchased the biggest beers they had. It was then that the deluge, accompanied by gale force winds, blew in. I was drenched from head to feet because unlike my friend I refused to crowd into a men’s room with a questionable group of mixed company.

Wandered drunkenly through the streets of Downtown Charleston verbally assaulting everyone that crossed my path and tearing out potted plants by the roots before tossing them into the street.

Got my eyebrows waxed.

Went to FriendTwo’s house one morning before work, we watched Sideways and drank Jack and Cokes. At lunch I had a 32 oz Dos Equis and she had the biggest margarita I’ve ever seen, we capped it off with shots of Cuervo. We stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Castillo rum, and at the Piggly Wiggly for some bottles of Coke. Realizing that we needed a bag to sneak everything in with, I stole a teal colored woven straw bag from the table in front of the Pig. We spent the entire shift wasted, mixing drinks under the desk. I was at 147% productivity that night. FriendTwo still uses that ugly-ass bag.

Gained about ten pounds.

Met a nice young lady and lived with her for a while. Then she kicked me out and held my stuff hostage, forcing me to buy new clothes everyday. She later asked me to stay with her again, but I already had my clothes back.

Watched an episode of My Name Is Earl on my Zen Vision:M while driving.

Was ranked 11th out of 402 sales agents at Intercontinental Hotels Group.

Entered a few different strangers’ unlocked apartments before finding one that had beer in the fridge and stealing it.

Saw some live CBO boxing at the Plex, and topless bullriding after the fight, also at the Plex.

• Next up, a weekend of golf and debauchery in Richmond, Virginia. Then a week or two in the Keystone State before I have to go back to Michigan.

And I am dangerously attracted to women with issues. I mean issues. Alcoholism, eating disorders, drug addiction, abortions, children of divorce, past abusive relationships, victims of sexual assault, bipolar girls with intimacy issues, whatever; the more the better. Without making it sound like some kind of creepy pathological need, I am simply not as interested in boring women. It took me long enough to figure that out, but since I’ve realized it and chosen to embrace it things still haven’t gotten any easier.

My problem: I’m too nice. More specifically, the type of women I’m interested in generally do not want to be treated nicely. Oh, they might act like they do up front, but in my experience they still want to be treated like shit once in a while. That is not something I believe I am capable of doing, but I can change for the right woman. That last part was a joke. There has got to be a woman out there that has had enough trauma in her life for me to find her interesting that is also well-adjusted enough to enjoy being treated like a woman should be treated. Otherwise I guess I’m just out of luck. If you just read this and said “Bullshit!” out loud, please leave me a comment and tell me how wrong I am.

Also, I don’t think the girl I’m talking to now will work out, and it’s just because there isn’t enough time. It’s too damn bad, because things started out pretty good and she’s exactly my kind of girl, she’s really something special. Either way, I really like hanging out with her and who knows what might happen, but I guess it is silly to start a relationship a month before moving.

I was hanging out at Tracy’s brother’s house last night, having some drinks and watching the UFC pay-per-view. Met a lot of really cool people, definitely my kind of crowd, but I noticed a continuation of a strange trend. Apparently I have a very common and recognizable face, because everywhere I go people seem to think they recognize me from somewhere. I had no less than three different people ask me last night where I went to school or where I work because they thought they knew me. This is of course impossible because I’ve only lived here for a month. The same thing happens all the time back in Michigan, although at least once I’m pretty sure it was just a gay guy hitting on me, and he may or may not have actually thought I looked familiar. Either way, with my super-recognizable face I just hope that I am never in a police line up, because I will be doing time for sure.

The other night some friends and I went to a strip club I’ve never been to before. Club Fantasy is pretty ridiculous, first of all it looks like a plain warehouse from the outside with no sign or distinguishing marks. They don’t have a liquor license, and the cover is pretty steep, but what really sets Fantasy apart is the girls’ standards. More accurately, their lack of standards. After being pat down very, very thouroughly at the front door, you walk in and notice a prominently placed sign that says “No touching on stage.” It is a de facto admission that touching is in fact allowed, just not “on stage.” The place is full nude, all the girls are black, and not many of them are terribly attractive by stripper standards, but if you’re the type to be put off by a few stretch marks and caesarian section scars, then I guess this just isn’t the place for you.

One event pretty much sums up the whole experience. At one point FriendOne, who will remain nameless, was being entertained by one of the ladies at the end of the stage, when he suddenly took several quick steps back and swatted at his face as if being annoyed by a swarm of gnats. The two of us that saw this were instantly intrigued, and eager to find out what happened. Come to find out later that he was assaulted by a surprise shot of breastmilk. Yes, the stripper was lactating.

All in all this was probably the most entertaining strip club experience I’ve ever had, because personally I don’t generally like strip clubs. Call me a faggot but I’m really not that crazy about fake affection, lapdances are okay but way too expensive, and I’m actually a lot less superficial than I seem. I didn’t get any dances, even though FriendTwo kept offering to buy me one. Speaking of FriendTwo, she definitely had more fun than I did, taking advantage of a few free lapdances and lusting after the same big booty girl all night. But anyway, the best strip clubs in my opinion are the dirty, nasty and just plain freaky ones. I don’t get turned on by the atmosphere, but I find the situations that arise to be often hilarious and worth retelling.

I have just been exposed to the most revolting, mindblowingly awful event of my life. I’ll try to put it gently, a huge and intoxicated guest of my roomate had some issues tonight with her… Well, basically she shit all over the place.

Now, I’m no detective, but I will offer my theories of what exactly transpired tonight, as there were no witnesses.

It all started in the same place that it should have ended, the bathroom. Obviously, in her haste to expel her foul waste, she snapped the toilet seat like a saltine.

Why she then decided to leave the bathroom and begin her wayward exodus, no one may ever know. What we do know, is that she left a slime trail through the hallway. I call this one the “squirt and dribble.”

Follow the thin brown line, and you’ll come to our final depressing destination, the master bedroom. It is here where there are conflicting theories as to just what transpired. Theory 1 is that she squatted over the laundry basket and let loose a torrent of putrid stench, obliterating my poor roomates pajamas and a good portion of the carpet. Theory 2 is that she simply left a neat puddle of shit on the carpet, wiped her ass with the pajamas and tossed them in the basket. Two theories, one devastating result.

But what shitstorm would be complete without urine? No shitstorm at all, that’s what. It also appears that while she was unleashing brown destruction on the room she also managed to spray piss in an impressive arc.

As I sit here typing, ready to pass out from the bleach fumes, I can hardly believe what happened here tonight. Just unbelievable, what this animal did. Un-fucking-beleivable.

Update #1
This is what the carpet looked like the next day:

Update #2

Our anonymous shitter came back to the house tonight, and Brian had a little gift waiting for her…

Update #3

Here’s an entertaining video of the shitter and the homeowner wrestling in the kitchen, just to give you an idea what we’re dealing with here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08ahb0-fS0c
Update #4 The most amazing thing to come out of this saga is that the perpetrator does not have any shame about what happened and still frequents the scene of the crime. Thankfully, I moved out of this house about in april, but the events of this night will forever haunt my nightmares.

I pulled into the 7-11 parking lot this morning to buy a diet Rockstar, and the first thing I noticed was a throng of adorable little Boy Scouts standing around a table piled high with boxes immediately to the left of the entrance. What could this be, I asked myself. Apparently Boy Scouts sell cookies now, because that’s what they were doing. Bothering every poor person walking in to buy a cup of coffee or a newspaper at 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday. After this 30 second reflection I realize I don’t need this shit. I left to go to the next 7-11, about a half a mile away, and found it to be refreshingly scout-free.