Translation

I have over the years, taken much offence to the fact that due to my last name and the color of my skin, I have wrongfully been accused as an expert in certain things. A short list of the talents that have been falsely associated with my skill set are; picking grapes; fitting 40 people into a Volkswagen; swimming across rivers; jumping fences; digging tunnels; making tamales; and drug trafficking.

Although most things I have taken with a grain of salt, the one thing over the years that still irks me is the fact that a good portion of the people that I have met over the years have expected me to speak Spanish simply by the assumptions that have been made by looking at me.

I have never been able to speak the Spanish language. God knows that my parents, especially my mother, tried like hell to teach me the language. My mom speaks the language fluently, having learned it at a young age along with English. My father doesn’t exactly speak it fluently, he does however, understand it well enough to comprehend what my mom is trying to hide from her sons when she starts in on one of her rants.

Like any good set of parents, they only wanted to provide a better, more comfortable childhood than the ones they had. This led them to purchasing a home in a relatively stable, small, upper middle-class, predominately white community. The situation did not allow for a lot of the use of Spanish, unless you counted the ritual ordering of a burrito or tostada at the neighborhood Taco Bell.

In a four year span covering Junior High and High School, I managed to take 8 semesters of the language without failing one of them, but never getting anything other than a B. I am more than convinced that the only reason I did that well was that my parents paid my teachers to get me through, not wanting to bear the shame of having the only Hispanic son in the school who flunked his Spanish classes.

Entering 12th grade, after years of education, three different teachers, and some unknown thousands of dollars spent by my parents, I was no better off than I was when I started. I was, at most times, able to conjugate verbs solely based on a simple chart that had been browbeaten into me. My pronunciation made me sound like I was Keanu Reeves, in a Spanish version of “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure”…

“Yo quiero mas nachos, dude!”

“Dammit, Jake, stop saying ‘dude’!”

My sentence formation wasn’t much better. It was as if I was a third grader who knew how to count to 100, but was completely convinced that 30+70 equaled eleventeen. In fact, one of my Spanish teachers once had a meeting with my parents and the Vice Principal of my High School to discuss the possibility that I might have a learning disability.

When I spoke to my Guidance Counselor as to what my options for a major would be as I was preparing for college, the choice was rather easy…

“So what lets me out of a foreign language prerequisite?”

“Well, Jake, there’s engineering, and…”

“I’ll take it!”

By 17, I was convinced that I would never have to deal with the subject or situation again. I had my plan laid out, my entrance tests were complete, my school and major were selected, and I had been accepted and given a scholarship. My life was on cruise control, and I had no reason to worry about Spanish again. That is, until one morning in April.

I was sitting in my Advanced Placement American Government class, discussing the questionable morality of the actions of the ACLU, when a darker skinned, older woman stepped into the room. She spoke with some of the worst broken English I had heard in my life. It was in fact, so bad, that I have no way of describing it visually.

“I need Jakob.”

“Excuse me, there is no Jakob, but my name is Jake.”

I am indeed aware that I misspelled my own first name, but that’s how she pronounced it. The name Jacob sounds different depending on how you chose to enunciate the letters and read the word. This particular woman decided to make it sound Swedish, rather than taking the straight Spanish translation of Jocobo, which was odd considering she spoke as if she just crossed the border.

We started walking down the hall, her, another minority student that was pulled out of the class, and I. The two of us were rather confused, considering the facts that neither one of us had been in an ounce of trouble, and the rather random person removing us from our AP class had no discernable authority and sounded as if she needed remedial English lessons.

“Ma’am, what is this about? I am in the middle of a rather important class, and with all due respect I don’t appreciate the interruption.”

“You need a test.”

“What kind of test?”

“It’s for your English, for your graduation.”

“You mean an English proficiency test?”

“Yeah, that is it.”

I have been known over the years, for a complete inability to keep my mouth shut when challenged by any form of authority. I have been called staunchly indignant and the type of person who will do the opposite of what I am told, just to prove a point.

“The fuck I do lady! I’m going back to the class that you interrupted. It sounds to me like you are the one who needs to take the test!”

“For your graduation…”

“If need be, I’ll speak with the Superintendent of the district. But for now, you can take the test your damn self!”

I realize that the situation was out of her control, and I realize that she was just doing her job. I just needed a way to vent, and that seemed as good as any. I had never been so insulted in my life. Considering the fact that my SAT scores were high enough to have me recruited by Ivy League schools, and my English grades in school were exemplary, higher than those of my Spanish grades, I was well aware that I was singled out due to my Hispanic last name.

Two classes later, she tried again, thinking that I had calmed down and was going to be more cooperative. This time, I dragged her to the Principal’s office. With my guns drawn and firing, I confronted the Principal.

“What the hell is this about? They want me to take some sort of English proficiency test!”

“I’m sorry Jake, I know how this looks…”

“Do you? It makes the staff of this district look like a bunch of assholes!”

The random Hispanic woman chose this time to pipe in with her two cents…

“For your graduation…”

“I am not taking the test, and I am walking with my friends. If there is going to be a problem with that, I can take it up with the Superintendent, clear?”

My Principal, always the voice of reason, apologized for the incident and assured me that the matter was settled. The administrator of the test was still a little confused by the situation.

“What is this word, clear?”

My friends have at times, been no different than the random people I have encountered, assuming that there is some Spanish gene that is passed down over the generations. Almost same way that hair color and eye color would be passed down, my friends expected that I popped out of the womb able to have fluent conversations with Mexican nationals.

This was never more apparent than a day trip with a couple of friends into the Mexican side of Nogales. My friends had picked out an ugly blanket that no self respecting Mexican would own, and decided that it would look great draped over their couch. Unsure how to begin negotiations, they turned to me.

“Jake, you talk to them.”

“Why me?”

“Well, you’re Mexican, right?”

“Yeah, man, we have a secret handshake and everything! You had better turn around; we don’t like white people to see it…”

“I didn’t mean anything by-“

“Oh shit, dude I forgot my card!”

“What car-“

“My race card! I usually keep it with my Green Card, but fuck it if I didn’t forget that too!”

“Jake, you’re a fucking-“

“Hey, you’re blonde haired, blue eyed! Can you speak German?”

“You know the answer to that-“

“Can you speak German?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought!”

I turned my head and scoffed.

“Retraso de mierda…”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Insight

It is a situation that has played out over and over in my long, tumultuous dating career. I am sitting on the couch, watching a movie or my favorite sitcom. My right arm is draped around the shoulders of a girl whose head is on my chest. She looks at me and smiles, I get a little uncomfortable at the stare that she starts to give me, then she says the words…

“Jake?”

“Uh huh?”

“What are you thinking?”

Being that I am male, there are only three possible categories of true answers that can possibly fit the question. The first, and most common for most men would the standard ‘nothing’. Men, unlike women, can actually be thinking nothing and be quite happy for sometime, requiring quiet time for our heads as well as our ears.

Although ‘nothing’ is the most common verbal answer to the question, it is most likely not the most common actual answer. In reality, at most given times, there are two types of things that are occupying our minds. The first would be something so vulgar, disgusting, or rude that if it were to come out of our mouths, you would never stop kicking us in the nuts.

I have been told that it is as of yet inappropriate to talk to girls we are dating about such things as dreams of their sisters doing things that are beyond description to a squad of female college cheerleaders. This is especially true in the early stages of dating. Unfortunately, honesty only goes so far when dealing with women. I learned this the hard way, forcing me to get in the habit of wearing a cup on all of my first dates.

It is said that a man thinks about sex once every 8 seconds. In truth, this is an approximation. Once every 8 seconds is an average, when the approximation takes into account the time we are asleep and not in REM, the number drops to every 5 seconds, and the average duration of the thought is 3 seconds, which means 60% of our thoughts are about sex.

In all honesty women, the thoughts are usually about us and another woman, or you with other women, or other women with other women, or us and you and other women. Well, you get the point.

The second type of thought that mills about in the brain of ours is usually the type that makes us look like morons. They are things that are so ridiculous that if we were to actually admit them to a women, they might have us declared clinically brain dead and try to have us euthanized. They are things that you might overhear guys talking about when they are hanging out with other guys.

Take my brother and me, for example. We are two smashing young men of intelligence that is far beyond average, yet every time we hang out, we tend to get into the most ridiculous conversations imaginable.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“You’re telling me that you think that the professor got more action than anyone else on that island?”

“Ok, think about it, jackass! There are two single women on the island and three single dudes. The skipper is a fatty and Gilligan is functionally retarded, who do you think is going to get the most tail?”

“Mr. Howell!”

“Fuckhead, his wife is there, and she looks like she is quite a ways past menopause, of course he is going to get some from his wife!”

“No dude, I am talking about him nailing Ginger and Mary Ann.”

“What would Ginger and Mary Ann possibly see in his old ass?”

“Money, dude!”

“They live on a fucking desert island, asshole! What the fuck are they going to do with money? Not to mention, do you really think Mrs. Howell is cool with her husband banging a couple of other chicks?”

“They can do it when she is out picking berries or something.”

“You know how fast information travels in a small town? Think about how fast it travels in a community of seven! This whole thing is stupid! The show didn’t make any sense anyway!”

“How so?”

“Who the fuck takes a trunk of goddamn clothing, a chemistry set, or encyclopedias on a three hour tour? How far could they have possibly gone out to sea in those three hours? What kind of professor was he?”

“How would it matter what kind of professor he was?”

“How the hell would a philosophy professor know rare languages and chemistry?”

“Ok, you have a point."

“I know I have a point.”

Besides waxing intellectual about the sexual exploits of the castaways on Gilligan’s Island, (and in public, scaring away potential dates), we have argued over the directing prowess of Spielberg and Kubrick; debated who would be a better running back, Spider-Man or the Hulk; and discussed who would be the victor in a no-holds-barred fight between Superman and Jesus.

These things that we find important are mere trivia for women. These are things that they just don’t appreciate, and if we tried to explain what kinds of Kryptonite have what effect on Clark Kent, the conversation would just get lost in translation.

Besides the gratuitous, ‘nothing’ answer, there is always the I-am-trying-to-score-points-by-telling-you-a-bold-faced-lie answer…

“I’m just thinking of you, babe.”

This is only true in rare occasions. In the case it is true, it rarely if ever involves our feelings for you. We aren’t thinking of running across a field, hand in hand, with our as of yet unborn children in tow. There is no white picket fence surrounding a two story house in the suburbs, and I guarantee you, there is no minivan in the driveway.

The overly sweet answer of ‘I’m thinking of you’ has a way of backfiring horridly. One lie leads to another when you expect us to elaborate on the thought that wasn’t in our head in the first place.

“What about me?”

I am now engaged in a conversation that I did not want to be in when we sat down for the movie. I try to kill it as swiftly and vaguely as possible.

“Oh you know, stuff…”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I was just thinking about how beautiful you are…!”

…When you’re quiet.

Tier One

Most everyone I know who works on computers for a living has done it. It is a virtual right of passage for anyone who is an information technology professional. It is the foundation of a techie’s resume, the experience one needs with the certifications they have.

It’s tier one tech support.

I was a tier one tech in Tucson for a small software company that shall remain nameless. Whether you were a novice or you were an experienced IT professional, the job was arduous and frustrating, demanding flexible thinking skills and the utmost patience.

The turnover rate was the highest I had ever seen in any job. After one week on the floor only two of us remained from the thirty students that were in my training class. I am quite convinced that I know why people left in droves. It wasn’t cause the job itself was difficult, even though at times it was damn near impossible. It wasn’t cause the company treated us poorly, ‘cause I have never worked for a company that treated its employees better than they did.

The reason people were more than willing to run away from a great job to put on a resume is, for all intents and purposes, you. Ok, maybe not you, specifically, I mean you are intelligent enough to read my work. However, statistically speaking, at least 88 percent of calls to tech support are from the functionally illiterate. More often than not, it’s not the operating system or the software or hardware that needs to be fixed, it’s in fact the end user.

The hardest part of working with computers is the end user. A computer, with few exceptions, will be nice enough to tell you exactly what is wrong with it. A friendly ‘hey fix this’ or a ‘please install that’ in the event viewer can solve most of your problems. It’s the average end user that causes most of the problems.

You can tell the intelligent ones; they are friendly, polite and easy to talk to. They always start the call the same way:

“Hi, uh, I was a little unsure how to do this thing, I tried to look it up online, and some of the answers I got seemed to vary quite a bit. I didn’t want to do anything until I was absolutely certain that I was doing it right, can you help me out?”

“Absolutely! Just tell me what I can do for you.”

“I just need to set up a folder so that no one else on the machine can get to them but me.”

“That’s not a problem ma’am, we’ll get you set up in a few minutes. The first thing I want you to do is…”

It is as simple as that. The people that I appreciate are the ones who are willing to go out and do some leg work, people who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty and try to learn something new on their own. Ultimately, when they feel that something is out of their comfort zone, they call and ask for help before they kill the machine.

Unfortunately, most of my calls were from the ones that weren’t willing to learn. They were the ones who knew how to do more harm than good, and the ones who loved to waste my sweet time.

“Uh hi, Jake is it? Well anyway, I have a problem, I’m hoping you can help me out with it.”

“Go ahead and tell me about it sir.”

“Every time I log in to my computer everything turns black.”

“Does it restart? Does it shutdown?”

“No it just turns black, I went in to my display settings and turned all of the colors black.”

“You did what now?”

“I turned everything black, and now I can’t see anything.”

Tier one support is the kind of job that makes grown men bang their heads against the desk in front of them. It is the type of job that makes adults run of the door yelling and screaming in frustration.

“Hi, Jake, I just got XP and now I want to install it, can you walk me through it?”

“Sure thing, just give me some more information about your machine.”

We spend the next 5-7 minutes going over every detail of his machine, from CPU speed to front side bus, to RAM. We discussed every minutia of his computer.

“Well sir it sounds good, and it sure sounds like your machine meets the basic requirements for XP, so let’s get started. First I need you to put your CD in the CD-ROM drive.”

“Well, I can’t.”

“And why is that?”

I already knew the answer before he gave it to me.

“I’m not at my computer, I’m at work.”

“Sir, how do you want me to walk you through the procedure if you aren’t at your machine?”

“I don’t know, I never thought about it, really. I was just kind of hoping you could tell me how to do everything.”

If anyone wonders why I don’t have any tact anymore, it’s because I spent all of it doing tech support.

“Thank you for calling Windows XP technical support, my name is Jake, can I get your name and case number please?”

“Goddamnit! I just went out and spent two-hundred fucking dollars on this Windows Millennium 2000 and now it says it won’t install on all of my computers!”

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down for just a moment. I need your case number so that I can take notes about what we do here.”

“You don’t need my goddamn case number!! You just need to fix my computers so I can install fucking Millennium 2000 on all of my computers!”

It’s a good thing for me the case number popped up when the phone rang. The woman calling sounded so ignorant that I am surprised she was able to match the digits in the support number with the ones on her phone keypad.

“Ok ma’am, first thing is first, this is Windows XP technical support. I need to know if you are using Windows Millennium, 2000, or XP.”

“It’s Millennium 2000!”

“Ma’am, there is no such thing as Windows Millennium 2000, now, is it ME, 2000, or XP?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“It will say on the box, ma’am.”

It’s a good thing most people can’t tell if I am being sincere or if I am being smarmy.

“It’s XP, but it still won’t install on my fucking machines!”

“Ok, ma’am, let’s look at one of the machines it won’t install on, we need a bit more information. Tell me, what does the machine tell you when you try to install it?”

“It says you can’t do it.”

“Can you be a little more specific ma’am? Can you maybe try to put the disk in the CD-ROM drive and start the installation process?”

“Ok, there! It said it again!”

“Said what, ma’am?”

“You can’t do it!”

“Specifically, what did the error message say, ma’am?”

“Installation not a supported upgrade path.”

“Ma’am, what version of Windows are you currently running on this machine?”

I already new the answer but I wanted her to answer the question for herself, so she new exactly why the installation wouldn’t work.

“I have ’95 on this machine.”

“Windows ’95 cannot be upgraded to any version of Windows XP.

“Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?”

“It says that on the box, ma’am.”

I was starting to lose my patience, but I knew that this call was far from over.

“Alright, let’s look at your other machines.”

“It installed fine on my laptop, but when I tried to install the fucking thing on my desktop it says something about activation!”

And there it is, the idiot’s trifecta, she bought one license for XP, tried installing it on one machine without reading the box, installed it onto a second machine and activated it, then tried to install it on another machine.

“Ma’am, how many copies of the software did you buy?”

“Just one.”

“Windows product activation allows the use of a single license on one machine only, that’s why it is saying you can’t activate it on more than one computer.”

“Goddammit! I bought the program, I can put it on as many machines as I fucking want!”

“No, ma’am, you didn’t buy the program.”

“Excuse the hell out of me? I have a receipt from Best Buy right here that says I did buy the program!”

“Ma’am, you bought a disk with the program on it, we own the program. You just own the product ID for it.”

“Explain that in English, asshole!”

“We own all rights and privileges to the program, we created it, and it is our intellectual property. You own the right to use the program on one, and only one, computer with the one license that you bought. We own the program, you just bought the right to use it, according to our terms.”

“Your terms? I didn’t see any terms that you gave.”

“Yes you did ma’am.”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“Did you at any point click something that says ‘I agree’?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Did you read anything in the textbox that you agreed to?”

“It’s to damn long! How am I supposed to read it?”

“Ma’am those are the terms that you agreed to when you installed the program, the terms that I just outlined. So it seems that all of your problems are resolved, is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“All my problems aren’t resolved asshole! I still can’t do what I want!”

“You aren’t allowed to do what you want.”

“Fuck you!”

Click.

Now if they only let me answer the calls the way these people should be dealt with.

“Thank you for calling Windows XP tech support, my name is Jake, can I get your name and case number please?”

“Uh hi yeah, I need to get this antivirus program working with my computer, it’s causing all sorts of problems and I can’t seem to fix them.”

“Ok, what is the name and version of the program?”

“(Program name) by (Company name) version 6.”

“Sir, that antivirus program isn’t compatible with Windows XP.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s what the upgrader thing said. It had a big exclamation point in a yellow triangle and it wanted me to remove it but I thought it was just full of shit.”

“Let me get this straight, Upgrade Advisor explicitly told you that the program was incompatible, and you went ahead and installed Windows without uninstalling the program first?”

“Yeah, what’s your point?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Journal of an Insomniac

Thursday, November 4th 1999; 9:45 AM:

I had a bit of a problem sleeping last night and I’m not quite certain why. I could have just a bit too much on my mind lately or there could be something physiological going on. But in any case, I’m at school, waiting for chemistry to start, so I thought I would take a few moments to write something down, being that I have already finished the majority of the crossword puzzle in today’s Wildcat.

The guys should be here soon. They will undoubtedly ask for help on the crossword and maybe, just maybe, help on the homework that is due tomorrow. That is, if they even attempted it. I need to start giving them the wrong answers.

Sunday, November 7th 1999; 10:10 AM:

I got home from work last night at around 11:30 to find my roommates with about 10-15 people in the living room watching “The Crocodile Hunter”. Apparently they had planned a party and didn’t tell me about it.

I made myself a drink and went to my room just to chill out alone for a few. Whatshername… a chick that I used to pseudo-date for a little while, Alison or Ashley or something that begins with an A, walks in a little buzzed and lays down on my bed and starts rolling around…

“Your bed is SOOOO comfy!!”

Why she couldn’t act like that when we were dating is beyond me. In any case, I kicked A-name out of, I mean off of, my bed just before my girlfriend showed up. As is her usual, she got belligerent-drunk, started shit with my friends, and had to be carried downstairs before someone killed her. I took her home about an hour and a half after she got here.

Me, on the other hand… I’m still having a hell of a time trying to sleep. The nights have slowly gone from mildly restless to moderately disturbing. Last night was the worst it has been since I started on this little bout of insomnia. I think I only slept about 4 hours. Tonight I will try some OTC meds.

Thursday, November 11th 1999; 8:16 AM:

Well, the Tylenol PM officially doesn’t work anymore. It does kinda work, but only when I take a damn-near-lethal dosage of it. I decided to cut out the Tylenol for, hopefully, more natural forms of sedation. Besides, I may need my kidneys some day. We’ll see if swimming at night before I go to bed does the trick.

School is being a pain in the ass, but what more can I say about that? I’ve been busting my ass to keep up, but I am working full time and going to school full time, so it’s to be expected. Damn, a coke sounds good right about now…

Tuesday, November 23rd 1999; 2:28 PM:

The insomnia is finally starting to get to me. It’s now been almost two weeks since I have had a decent night of sleep, and three weeks since I have had a natural night of sleep. Last night is the worst it has ever been, I’m not sure of an exact number, but I would be surprised if I had 90 minutes of sleep. And to get those ninety minutes, I had to take two shots of JD.

I’ve tried swimming, smoking, showering, reading, listening to music, watching TV, taking a walk around the neighborhood, and the occasional… well you know. Well not a damn thing worked.

I went online this morning and looked up cures for insomnia on Alta Vista, only to realize that some people have a hard time sleeping after they work out, smoking, listening to music or walking long distances. So much for all of my theories…

This prof is starting to get on my nerves. The guy smells like bourbon and pipe tobacco, I wish he would just shut the hell up…

Saturday, November 27th 1999; 3:15 AM:

Well, it finally happened. My girlfriend and I broke it off. She essentially said that I was insufferable since my bout of insomnia started. I think the chick needs to grow up a bit and not start shit with my friends every time she fucking drinks. That’s the last time I date a chick who is 18!

Can’t sleep more than oh about 20-30 minutes a night now. When I do sleep, it’s more of a conscious dream than actual sleep, although I keep having the same dream.

I am crossing a catwalk inside a cave when it gives way. I fall and hit the side of the cave wall, bouncing and falling, hitting and falling until I finally wake up. Whoever said that you die if you hit the ground in a dream is a bloody idiot.

Well if you can’t tell, I am progressively getting more and more irritable. Everyone, including myself, is starting to get on my friggin’ nerves. I’m not sure if it’s my fault or theirs anymore.

Friday, December 3rd 1999; 12:38 PM:

I have taken to tape recording my journal entries, due to the fact that I am having a hard time reading my own handwriting anymore. I know what the words are, and I know what the definitions are, but they might as well be numbers, ‘cause words in a sentence no longer make any sense when written down.

I had an attack in the middle of Latin class today, I have no idea what brought it on, I just know I had to leave class and sit outside for about twenty minutes ‘cause I was hyperventilating.

I just hope that sometime in the future, when I play this tape, I will be able to understand what I am saying. My speech is getting worse and worse, too, or at least that’s what people have been telling me. One of these days, I will be able to get… why is that chick looking at me like that…? Hey you! What the hell is your problem?!

Wednesday, December 8th 1999; 10:10 PM:

I just got out of work. Spent most of my time today talking to a five-inch tall Puerto Rican who was standing next to my computer on my desk. Miguel talks a lot of shit considering how small he is. I haven’t quite determined if it’s because he is Puerto Rican or if it is a napoleon complex he has. No matter, I’m sure I can take him anyway.

The girl I have been dating for the past couple of weeks is starting to get concerned, she wants me to see a doctor or a shrink or something. She says that I always look like I’m ‘zoned out’ and my rants don’t make any sense at all.

I think she just doesn’t like the fact that I am making friends with a Puerto Rican.

Tuesday, December 14th 1999; 11:40 AM:

Finally broke down and went to doctor and a shrink. Still haven’t slept lately so, I’m not so sure what the hell the shrink was babbling on about, said something about some sort of anxiety something, I’m not sure, the picture behind his head started waving at me. Also said something about the reoccurring dream I’m having, but didn’t understand that either.

In any case, the doctor gave me drugs. It’s a new pill called Ambien, it’s supposed to help cure insomnia. So now I am sitting waiting at the pharmacy for my prescription to be filled.

My girlfriend is happy that I am trying to get help, probably the happiest I have seen her since we started dating. Miguel called me a pussy and spat in my water.

Wednesday, December 15th 1999; 2:15 PM:

I’ll be damned if the pill didn’t work! I slept like a baby last night. After last night, I am quite convinced that 1 Ambien will knock out a full grown Clydesdale after an all night coke bender! I got a good 10 hours of sleep last night.

Details about last night are kind of sketchy, I’m not exactly sure, but I might have fallen asleep lying on top of my girlfriend last night. I will need to apologize to her when I see her tonight.

On other fronts, I am writing coherently again, and Miguel seemed to disappear off of the face of the planet. I think he’s pissed off at me, I might just be the only person I know that got ditched by his imaginary friend.

Thursday, December 16th 1999; 8:09 AM:

Well she dumped me. Apparently, not only did I fall asleep lying on top of her, but we were semi-‘busy’ in the process. I don’t blame her, I probably would have done the same had the roles been reversed. I don’t think we were a good fit anyway, she’s a little too crazy for me. And I’m not talking, ‘get drunk and get naked’ crazy, I’m talking, ‘cries over a Folgers coffee commercial’ crazy.

At this point I’m not sure if she was ever real, or she was a figment of my imagination.