1. Exercise at least three times per week.
2. Lose 30 pounds.
3. Take more pictures.
4. Eat healthier.
5. Get organized.
6. Take a vacation.
7. Start writing a book.
8. Get involved in volunteer work.
9. Launch a website.
10. Enjoy life.

My tenure at the New Jersey Institute of Technology is about up. I will be receiving my bachelors degree in December as long as I do not screw up any of my classes. As it looks now the only class that I have to worry about is Physics II, because I absolutely loathe electric circuits and the such, but I have a good feeling about the next exam so I think all will be good. Last week I taught two classes on Linux, Boost, and C/C++ to some capstone students at NJIT. Capstone students are essentially students that are working on their senior project (or thesis) to graduate.

At the beginning of September I made the concise decision to get off my ass and start getting my life in gear. So along with a controversial hair cut (went front long hair to short hair) I went and began putting out my feelers for contract (and consulting) work to pay some bills. I am currently working on a project for a friend of mine, have one or two personal projects in the pipeline, but unfortunately nothing that is paying some green yet. We’ll see how that goes.

That’s about it for the quick read. I am going to make an effort to post some more blog entries when I think about it. Most of my bright moments happen when I am not near a keyboard.

This got me into delving a little deeper than I wanted to think (I actually should have been concerned with the shower I was taking). How many people out there are crackheads in hiding? Just like alcoholism are there functional crackheads? We may be amongst crackheads and not even know it. Those people who come in every day that look like they went out a little late last night and drank a hundred dollars worth of alcohol; they may be a fucking crackhead.

This is all the more interesting because what if the crackheads decided to hold an uprising? The only line of defense we would have would be crack, because as everyone knows the only way to stop a crackhead is with an offering of crack. If the crackheads were to takeover we would all now need to either become a crackhead ourselves or be the mindless slave that harvests in the fields working the crack to the blessing of the supreme crackhead leader.

Get a dog. Because one thing that is certain is that dogs know where crackheads are. Just like they are able to sniff the ass of another pooch and notice if they had shat on my lawn, they immediately know who a crackhead is. Its like fried into their brain. Be nice to your pet, because when the crackheads decide to hold an uprising we’re going to need their expertise in the world of hunting out the crazies.

It is interesting how a conversation with a good friend can go from normal, to wacky and finally end with something so Alice-in-Wonderland that you have to look at the instant messenger window and say, “What?” You know, one of those conversations where the person on the other end just dropped a nugget on you the size of Texas, and then they immediately expect a credible, well-thought out answer.

The conversation in question that captivated me enough to write about started like any other would, and immediately segued into the topic of the Vagina Monologues (henceforth referred to as ‘the VM’). As I was nursing a hangover from earlier that morning, the topic of conversation quickly moved to what the festivities could be after the VM.

For me a performance of the VM would be enough to wear me out for the night and I could not even conceive a need for an after-party. But most of the time I am not one to turn down an invitation of any sorts, especially since its not often that you get a chance to go hang out with the cast performing the VM.

I have only been to a couple of cast after-parties before and none of which led me to a gentleman’s club where some of the women performing in the VM would spend their time (and hard earned money) watching other women take off their clothes. This was very intriguing to me. Personally, I don’t find those types of places entertaining, but I had to inquire further about the situation.

Having known the person for a long time, the fact that she enjoys going to these clubs doesn’t surprise me, she is just that type of person. I mean, it’s not like she went to the club and left with bite marks from one of the performers. Something like that is only reserved for the bold, but she is the type of girl who knows how to enjoy a night out on the town her way.

Now being even more interested than I had originally been, the hike up to Connecticut to witness the VM (and the subsequent after-party) began to sound more inviting. Not to mention the obvious perk of being able to scry into the eyes of two natural beasts having their way with each other at aforementioned gentleman’s club.

Now that might be worth the drive.

So the conversation moved away from that subject and on to something that was a little more personal. What exactly does it mean, in a dream, when a particular item that should be one thing, turns out to be another entirely?

The awkwardness continued with, for lack of a better term, the condom shoe (henceforth referred to as ‘the shoe’). This shoe was of interest to me, for I am the one who dropped this nugget on the table, but also because I had absolutely no idea what it meant. Again, as I said above, I tend to pull inspiration from all walks of life. But the shoe, a size ten ‘Nevado’ with a black sole and fuzzy tan, was a complete paradox.

Being a person that tends to over analyze my dreams I often question the motives of my subconscious. Why had a shoe, that was too small for my feet, appeared in my dreams in such an unorthodox manner? Furthermore, a few hours prior, I had just removed my pair of New Balance sneakers after putting good mileage on them. Why did my brain decide to discriminate against the pair of my trusty kicks?

My friend suggested that I should coddle my pair of Nevado shoes more often, for they could quite possibly bring me more luck. Unfortunately, I could not parallel the fate of Dorothy, as I had recently thrown that pair of shoes away.

After we decided to part our ways and end the line of communication on instant messenger, she vowed to stop using the voodoo doll that she had built of me for anything other than humane purposes. I thanked her and laughed at the same time. But I had to ask, “Did you actually make a voodoo doll of me?”