I'm two classes away from the weekend on this first week of school in Boulder, Colorado. My apartment is a duplex that has lead paint peeling from the walls in the kitchen and a basement that I live in where I have to duck as I enter. Yes, *I* have to duck. For those of you that have been staggeringly lucky enough to see me shimmering and godlike in person, you know that I don't exactly embody the definition of "tall". That's my English Major way of saying that I'm short.

My roommates this year shall consist of Justin, who lives across from me in the basement, and Dean, who lives above us. The basement is very industrial and forboding in the main "lobby" area of it, with exposed ductwork, so we added hanging chains, hazard signs, and a gas mask leaning against one of the utility sinks. My room, however, is bigger than god, with no less than 3 Bjork posters. There is so much room for me to strap on my electric guitar and rock around like a little rockin' fellow, leaping about with reckless abandon until finally ending up sweaty and leaning haphazardly agains the couch, the guitar still reverberating and echoing the final humming chords of feedback to "No One" by I Mother Earth or, oh, Freebird. I do all of this with entirely too much joy because my door has a LOCK on it. Rad.

Speaking of rad, I will now tell you my honest dream I had last night. I had a monkey and he understood english. He was a small fellow and insisted that I call him "Huck" from Huckleberry Finn fame, and he did a variety of tricks. We even got in a fight in my dream but made up, and then I woke up for a few minutes, went back to sleep, and was treated to a screaming black nightmare about zombies. Not the elite kind that just shamble toward you, but hoardes of different types that were all very quick and made me wake up sort of grumbly.

People, think of the options. Would you rather start your day with a cute little money that can talk, or zombie bites? Rawr.

Lori-bone sent me the best goddamn cookies I've ever seen in my life. Carefully, with frosting, she illustrated these designs, including but certainly not limited to:

1. A cookie with pretty borders that said "Die" in the center.

2. A NINJA COOKIE.

3. A "Jared (heart) Justin" cookie that may have implied that she loved us, but instead looked to have an odd appearance of homoerotic appriciation between roommates.

Thank you, Lori. Thank you for kicking so much ass in a world of plain cookies. You will always be my sweetest sugar cookie of butterflies and unicorns and hearts and the color pink and great mix CDs.

I'm sitting in the CU computer labs and things have been renovated. The computers are now ultra-rad flatscreen monitors and the weights in the weight room have these great futuristic look now, and as we know, future = better. The cluster of PC computers in the center of this lab are an ominous black, while the macs encircling the outside are white. Do I sense a good/evil battle looming? Even a statement on race relations? IS A WAR COMING SOON?

I love this setup. I feel like I could update this diary and then tap into the Justice Team's secret hideout and dispatch them to make the car shop hurry up and fix my car. And the rental place gave me a giant white minivan. Yes. Chicks dig it. Chicks dig it when I go to pick up my kids at soccer practice.

My birthday was uneventful, just like I desired it. What's 22? Two "2"'s put together, that's what.

Where should I meet intelligent girls who also enjoy the virtue of an aggressive game of Mario Kart? Write me and let me know. And if any of you reading are intelligent girls who enjoy an aggressive game of Mario Kart and wonder what I look like, I look like Tom Cruise with a dash of Johnny Depp and I'm really tall and I'm going to be a docter and I have a pony that I can give to you for free.

Jeff Buckley, I wish you hadn't died. I wish that my roommate Justin died instead. Really messily, too, because then I could take a piece of his body and dip it in gold and wear it on a chain around my neck, and whenever someone asks me what it is, I'll sort of turn my head a bit and whistfully say "It's just a reminder of a dear friend... who's gone now." Then I'll bow my head a little so a few stray strands of hair fall across my vision, clench one fist and bare my teeth, close my eyes, and hiss "God damn you, cruel fate." Then I'll pause awkwardly and try to change the subject, which will make me mysterious. Thank you, Justin. Thank you for dying for me.

I guess I'm really re-thinking my stance on zombies, because I'm having a hard time thinking that they're rad after my 20 tons of undead terror that decended on me last night. It's this type of emotional turmoil that us poets thrive on.

I suppose I have nothing left to say at the moment, but I love all of you like the little monkies of my dreams, and every person who reads this will recieve part of a robot. When we all hang out, we can put it together, like those green Transformer construction guys that formed the big robot, and then we'll... I...

shit.

never mind,

Jared.