This is an attempt to return to sharing through this blog. It will hopefully keep my writing skills sharp and make me a better writer. I'm working on Sue Been Honey. Who cares? Why would one want to be Sue Bee over any other brand? Honey is honey.

The evaluation I got for my final presentation this past quarter from one of my teachers, who is also head of the school:

Luis, your ideas are almost always good. Your presentations are always excellent. That's almost a guarantee of success. You give people confidence in you and your ideas. Just keep doing what you're doing. I get the sense that you come alive when you're presenting. Other than those times, you're kinda subdued. If I'm wrong, please forgive me, but I wonder if you're depressed. As I said, if I'm wrong, forget it. If you want help, we can talk.

On a night that's quiet and warm and one is left feeling empty, what is the cure? The silence, oddly, is defeaning and increasing the volume on the television can't make it feel right. It's usually when life comes to a lull, when the work and pressure that one normally fills himself with pauses, that it is most obvious something feels gone. I am left to my insanity and randomness, letting my mind wander and search for something that needs discovery. A pocketful of comfort, of pleasure. But the search is trying and the night not long enough. Defeated, perhaps. I fall asleep.

Every so often reminded by the scent of certain colognes. How I would burry my face in his neck and the warmth would bounce back. Nothing else mattered. I don't miss him. I miss it. I miss closing my eyes while my head rested beside someone elses. I miss having my world turn upside down.

Gay country line dancing bar. Can you believe there is such a thing? Hoedowns is right. I will be back - only next time on a weekend when there will be many cute cowboys with tight jeans and cowboy boots dancing to Dolly Parton - or even better - Billy Ray. His picture is plastered everywhere at this place. Which is weird cause he has a mullet. Mullets are so wrong. So are tapered stonewashed jeans.

Figuring it's about time to get in shape again, each morning during this past week I've been motivated to go jogging. Trying to include variety I opted for the treadmill this morning. The treadmill in the fitness room with a television. The workout quickly turned into a six minute half-ass jog as my attention turned to The View. I have failed.

JUST A FOOL...

Of all moments to look like a fool, none is worse than on national television. Today, I was the nodding friend with bad wardrobe and fake reactions on Movie and a Makeover. It's hard to act surprised when you do multiple 'reveal' takes and when you've already seen this person's surprise chemically straightened hair for two weeks prior. My experience in high school productions as waiter, waiter 2, and man has failed me.
Yes, I will look like a fool who smiles for no apparent reason on national television.

I'll be seeing swinging richards tonight. nice.

I think I offended a customer at work today. So the ever popular 'you guys' that we use in Jersey is not used here. Here, 'you guys' means you guys (as in gentlemen) not as in a group of people both male and female. The lady customer I had did not appreciate that (maybe because she really did look like a man, baby). But I KNEW she was a woman. Reminder: Use y'all when refering to people.

Today I had to run all my stations by myself. A couple of mishaps: I entered the wrong order. Twice. Luckily one table did not notice and ate their food anyway. Steak is steak! I gave one guy the wrong salad. He ate it anyway and did not complain. I forgot to send an order through the computer which then took forever for them to get. I broke a glass. I cheated on my entree test (I am going to hell). I was slow and overwhelmed. And this was Thursday night - with the help of my trainer. How will I do all this by myself with no trainer? I will cry and get all my tables drinks 'on the house' to level their anger. Then I will get fired.

Can't they give me just three two one table?

My trainer today really was awesome. He took me under his wing and instead of smacking me around for my stupidity, he smacked me around for other things - oh, I mean he was nice.

I suck. I am the worst waitor ever. If I had me as a waitor I would hate me and would want to leave a measely tip but wouldn't cause I'd feel bad. But yes, I suck. I'm slow, don't know what side comes with what or what sauce is stuffed in what blah blah blah. I don't know how to use the computer system, how to cash out. Yeah, I'm sure they see right through my 'experience'.

Today, I did learn that lesbians like Berenger wine and Coors Lite. And that they tip badly. Note to those nice lesbians out there who tip well: this is just information that was handed to me by my supervisors.

I got the job! I really do feel badly about lying on the application but they barely glanced at it. They said they were just really looking for people that would 'fit in'. By fitting in they meant they would prefer to hire homos. Let's just say I 'fit in' really perfectly well. "You'll make some good money," she said. At that point I wondered if this restaurant was really just a front for some other type of business. I don't know what happens in the back. So yes, homo hosts, homo waitors, homo dishwashers, homo cooks, homo...cows. Not really surprising is it?! After all, homos run midtown Atlanta.

Meanwhile, the lesbians cut the rug over in Decatur. Why is it that homos and lesbians don't mesh all that well? Why can't we all have the same turf? I've been asked this so many times by straight folk. I have my theories.

I lied today on a job application. Small shit you say? But I feel kind of bad. But when I think of the bigger picture, it's either get a job or have my car repossessed. Yes, i will lie. And I will drag my friends down with me to cover as former supervisors. Yes, supervisors.

I'm on a break from school, trying to enjoy the color yellow, getting a book to read, and thinking about some memories that are very dusty and faded.
I remember being very little, in my parents' furniture store. I remember the faded red tiled floor and tall columns. I remember eating watermelon as I faced the glass double doors. I remember the panic surging through me as I swallowed a seed. "Will a watermelon grow inside my stomach?" I asked my mom.

Martha in jail? Say it ain't so!

SHE BANGS

I LOVE him.
I am also delirious. Last few moments of school are leaving me drained. I am neglecting friends, bills, sleep.

Being in school at 1:30 in the morning is fun. These last few weeks are going to be hell. On a better note, I've been happily driving my new car around picking up hotties on the side of the road. Oh wait, not really.

There is 1/2 inch of snow. My school is closed. The city panicked. Southerners.

OH HAPPY DAYS

Day was just made infinitely better this evening. Call from a good friend sparked a big smile.

A sucky meeting with someone who's trying to do my job but can't do her own sucked even more when her proudest idea involved drawing cartoon legs on a television set or using crass bathroom humor to sell a $2000 product. But what do I know? Maybe pooping references really do sell.

On a much better note I finally have a car. No more running for my life across the highway. No more payphone calls "Can you pick me up" as I pack my lunchbox. No more fun walks on sidewalk-less streets on a 95 degree atlanta summer day.

Something I learned this weekend: when the car dealer can't spell circus or parent, types .02 words a minute, and assures you his forte is math yet fails at simple division, find another car dealer.

NOTE: This applies for anyone you may encounter that can replace car dealer in above statement. (ie. When the two dollar hooker can't spell circus or parent, types .02 words a minute, and assures you her forte is math yet fails at simple division, find another two dollar hooker.

A VISIT FROM THE ITCHY CROTCH FAIRY

I have a penis. But never in my life did I experience such an uncontrolable itch that I felt the need to scratch my genital area in public, nevermind tugging at it. And not just a stealth tug underneath a table or facing a corner where most likely people won't witness the itchy crotch symptom. But a full view public tug in the direction of - I don't know - someone's face! sick. just sick. Guys, don't scratch. It's not attractive. And girls, if your man scratches, tell him so.

Scraped knee today. Worked with monkey boy on a riduculously difficult product only to leave meeting with mediocre ideas. Worst of all, my ideas were ignored like a knock on the door from Jehova's Witnesses. Must gather more strength for my voice.

Spent a lot of the day at a failed photo shoot. For normally demanding so much independence, felt like I could have been taken care of today.