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Today I woke up early at 10:30, still tired from a night of Portland Organic Wrestling (a spectacle I will describe later.) John calls me, says that him and a friend are going to take the MAX to Gresham to make $20 at the plasma bank. I've never donated plasma before, but I need money to pay for food until I get paid, so I decide to make the trip as well.

Until he called, I had been planning on going back to bed in order to be well rested for the night shift tonight, so I was extra tired while I stood waiting for him on the platform. Three trains passed, and no John. Finally, half an hour after his ten-minute promise had worn out, he showed up, and we stepped onto the next car.

None of us had money for fair, so we were gambling on the chance that there would be no fare inspector. There never is--almost never--but the further you get from the city center, the greater your chances become that you will be one of the ones they make an example of.

We took our free ride unnoticed, and walked up the hill toward the promise of bad movies and blood money. Excuse the pun. When I got to the counter, I found that I lacked the necessary proof of address, and that my morning had been spent in vain. Back to the max. Back to looking over my shoulders for fare inspectors. Back to not having money for food at my break later tonight. Damn.

So here I am in the library, where I believe I just saw an ex-girlfriend of four years walk by. I wonder if she noticed me. And as I type this, I remember that I once found her livejournal by mistake. I'm getting sidetracked. She would never mention such a thing, and she always notices me and I never recognize her.

I hate February, and everything it involves, but I still fall in love with every beautiful girl I see (ex-girlfriends excluded), but I still just want to be, and am happy to be single right now.

That's enough side-tracking. I mentioned earlier that I would describe Portland Organic Wrestling, but it really is something you have to see to believe. If you find yourself in the Portland area on the first Thursday of any month, find out where it's going to be held, and be ready to be shocked. Shocked. Shocked. I mean it. Leave all pretentions and taste at the door. What are you about to see? I could attempt to describe it, but anything I could tell you would still leave you gap-mouthed for the first half-hour of the show. It's like professional wrestling done with a very small budget, in a bar, but dominated by the theatrics more than the actual fake fighting.

I still have beer and food in my hair. That was all part of the show. I need to go home and take a shower.