Send help. No, Cheez-Its. Wait, no, help AND the Cheez-Its.

I didn't know that by enrolling in college courses that run from Monday through Friday I'd be embarking on the best exercise regime of my entire life. There's the No Time for Eating factor, a big plus in my book. As a result my clavicle looks great. Nice and bony! (That's what he said!) I'm pretty sure I could use it as a drink rest if I'm ever willing to engage in a few minutes of Stupid Human tricks. Call me, David Letterman!

Also, I always seem to be on the go, either going to school, rushing from class to class, or trying to get back home. Doesn't that all sound so exciting! I bet it does. Aren't you jealous? Being so busy does have that affect on people.

Oh my God, someone please put me out of my misery now. Like, right this second, just make sure you feed me something first, because I am so hungry. Maybe some Cheez-Its? I like those. Oh, oh, oh, or maybe some of those Gold Fish crackers! Those are good, too, so before you kill me, give me a few of those to nibble on, then proceed to the hopefully non-bloody mercy killing of me, ok? Thanks.

Can you tell I'm not too happy?

Here's where I'd try to put a positive spin on things, like a big smiley face sticker on top of a mountain of poop, like, There's a mountain of shit, but hey, everybody, there's also a smiley face sticker on it. Isn't that just wonderful! So OK, yes I'm lucky to have some amazing professors, all entirely charming and funny, but guess what? I'm exhausted and there's the constant hunger pains in my stomach, so there is no smiley face sticker on a mountain of poop for me, just the mountain of stinky, gross poop, because I have to continue this inhumane cycle for 16 more weeks.

Jukebox Heartache

I'm very protective of the musical artists I love. Cat Power, Jeff Buckley, Sufjan Stevens. Defame them and I'm likely to punch you in the mouth. (Well, that's how it used to be before I ended up with probation. Stupid assault laws!)

So it pleases me greatly when other people not only like the same artists and songs, but have the ability to sing them as well. I would think as an artist it must be one of the highest honors to have someone want to sing your song because they've connected to it on a deeply personal level. Unless you're singing something by Coldplay, then you're just a douce. (Kidding, but not really.) And so thanks to YouTube, I present you with my two favorite videos of the week:

1. Amanda B. covering Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah", with a funny intro.

2. Matthew S. singing Ben Harper's "Waiting on an Angel." (Him being shirtless and rather cute had nothing to do with me watching it, oh, about six times. I swear.)

I came upon Amanda B's video through her website, which I'm a fan huge fan of. She's one of the most kind-hearted individuals you'll ever meet/read/stalk on the internet, even though she's raised orphaned squirrels back to health. Which I shall not hold against her, because as you all know squirrels are cute and cuddly-looking until they bite you on the face. She's just lucky she released them back into the wild before they had a chance to attack.

As for Matthew's video, I forget exactly how I came upon it, but that just means I'm one lucky fella and should thank my lucky stars for coming across it. He has two more videos, both superb covers of Sufjan Stevens songs.

Last piece of business before I go: 6things has made his final post, and that's a fucking shame. I've been a fan of his blog since I read his interview with Nathaniel of The Film Experience blog. Each of his blog entries are a series of numbered lists, hence the "6 things" title, and it's truly a unique way of communicating. You'd be hardpressed to find a journal as thoughtful, funny, and revealing of a writer's life as his, all wrapped up in a list of 6 things per post. Thankfully you can still check out all his wonderful entries through his archive. You won't be sorry.

The Inadequacy of Being a Guy

If not for the kind and understanding ear of a friend, I think I would have gone insane by now. I can tell her anything and not worry about being judged, and I've really relied on her as of late to keep my from going under.

In my last email/unceasing rambling to her I wrote about how inept I feel when dealing with guys, both straight and gay. I grew up not having many guy friends. They were a huge source of anxiety for me growing up as a boy; a boy who didn't entirely understand the invisible, but very real differences that set him apart from the other boys, yet understood that those differences would mean being cast out as an outsider if ever revealed. And so I did my best to distance myself from having any real guy friends. I stuck to the safety of my female friends. And it's been nearly that way my entire life.

My female friends have always been a constant source of love and companionship, but I can't help feel like I've missed out on something special, the male bond. I see my brother with his guy friends and I see my female friend's brothers with their guy friends, and it makes me feel inadequate.

And I wish it were as simple as recognizing a problem and then it magically fixing itself, or that tomorrow I'd make a million guy friends, but it doesn't work that way, especially when I still find myself operating in a similar state of paranoia over the exact same thing that prevented me from making those male friendships back when I was a boy.

It's scary to wake up one morning and feel like you've failed one of the very basic acts of being a guy.

You do not want to be me.

The highlight of my day was trimming my nose hair.

I miss human interaction.

I will survive!

It's funny to watch a friend struggle with weights if they're doing a bench press and they think they can do just one more rep, like somehow that one extra rep is going to make all the difference, and then reality sets in as the bar sags, and the rest is history.

Until that person is you. And you spend the next 10 minutes wondering how the hell to get out of the situation because you are stupid and don't have anyone spotting you. Your life flashes before your eyes as the bar gets increasingly heavier and your arms strain to keep the bar from pressing down on your poor, girly man chest.

But I am resourceful and a survivor. Like Cher and cockroaches, who as you all know, are the only ones with a chance to survive a nuclear holocaust.

Except I don't know how I got it off, because I think I passed out for a little bit and woke up in my bed surrounded by Auntie Em, Uncle Henry, Hunk, Hickory, and Zeke. Oh, and Toto, too.

So everything worked out fine in the end.