This is something I've been wanting to do for a while, and am going to do here for a bit, then jointly here and on my website, Av permitting.

It's going to be a daily diary/journal - a fake one, in the grand tradition of Sue Townsend's _The Diary of Adrian Mole_ and it's sequels. Some parts of it are already plotted and scripted, but none of it's been written - just like Adrian's diaries, this one will reflect current events, at least a little bit.

It's not autobiographical, and it's not real. Even though it is going to be UE-related, the places mentioned, the explorations taking place, the people involved, probably aren't going to be real, nor have any recognizable relationship to real locations or people. This is not the real Saint Paul.

It's meant to be humourous, and entertaining, and slightly dry and British.

The plan is to write something a bit like _The Diary of Adrian Mole_ (actually, more like one of the later ones, where he's in his twenties) and _The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys_, now sadly out of print, with a bit of Jack Burroughs from Bruce Bethke's _Headcrash_ and the grittiness of Emma Bull's _War for the Oaks_.

All of those are very much recommended reading, by the way.

If you find sarcasm or tech jokes offensive... you probably don't want to read this.

I woke up this morning to the radio with a strange lightheadedness and a horrible taste and strange, fuzzy feeling in my mouth. I lay there for a moment, trying to understand why the first day of my twenty-sixth year on this planet was beginning so poorly. Could I be hung over, I wondered? I'd spent the night before at home, alone, working on my website and drinking...
Beer? Wine? Peppermint schnapps? Some horrible, trendy alcopop? Nope, I'd been drinking orange juice. My condition sure felt like a bad hangover, but I hadn't had alcohol in weeks. Months, actually. I only drink socially, and, as I'm an introvert with no friends... well, I don't need to draw you a picture, I guess. Admittedly, the juice was made from concentrate with Saint Paul tap water, but too much of even the hardest water in the country wouldn't give one a hangover, would it?
Thinking about the possibility of fluoride addiction and withdrawal - it's been hot the last couple of days, I've been drinking a lot more water and juice than usual, and maybe the conspiracy theorists are onto something, after all - I rolled over on my twin bed and emitted a strangled scream as incredible pain lanced through my neck and shoulder.
It was then that I realized the source of my discomfort. I wasn't hung over, there was a cat on my face. I delicately removed it from it's position, unhooking it's sharp claws from my skin, and sat up, spitting out cat hair and feeling the rush as blood flow returned to my head. My strange oral exfoliation complete, I shut off the radio and stumbled into the kitchen, where I finished the last of the orange juice and then sat down amid the nest of computers to begin my day.
It wasn't until a few hours later, as I sat typing up a quote for a prospective client, that the strangest part of my morning hit me: I don't have a cat.

I woke up this morning an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off. Normally this isn't a big deal, as I'm lazy, go to bed early, and get more sleep than I really need, or can even use, but I'd had a hard time getting to sleep last night, and didn't sleep well at all. I spent all afternoon yesterday looking for - and not finding - the cat that was suffocating me when I woke up that morning. I searched every nook and cranny and, aside from some short black hairs on the bedding, found no sign of the animal, let alone an explanation of how it got in and out of my apartment. By the time I went to bed, I was beginning to doubt the cat had even existed, and wanted nothing more than to forget about the whole thing.

Alas, it's quite hard to forget or ignore something that's curled up against your stomach and purring, and that's what I discovered when I woke up. It wasn't on my face today, so I guess there's a bright side, but there was still no explanation of how it had gotten in my apartment.

"You don't exist," I told it, "you're nothing but a figment of my imagination."

She - it looked female, anyway - stood, stretched, and, still purring, began rubbing her face up against my nose until I hesitantly reached out and petted her. I didn't want to, you understand, but it tickled, and I felt it would be bad manners to sneeze at her, even if she was a hallucination.

When I emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, freshly showered, there was no sign of her anywhere.

I spent most of the day using a computer, retouching high-resolution film scans. The power went out just before ten in the evening, so instead of staying up late to watch the news I had a couple pieces of string cheese for a bedtime snack and went to bed, wishing I had insurance or could afford to see a shrink.

Money is money, but I've been spending too much time in front of a computer lately, so I went out for a walk late this morning. I wandered aimlessly, enjoying the nice weather, and eventually made my way downtown. Being downtown reminded me of the cool old steam tunnels running just below the streets. The tunnels, being extremely cool and creepy, and no longer accessible, made me even more depressed than I already was. I was sitting on a bench by the Ecolab building, wallowing in misery when a preppie in a power suit gave me two bucks in change. I wanted to chase after him, give the money back, and explain to him that I'm not homeless and don't need his charity, but then I remembered that I hadn't showered this morning and probably looked pretty bad, with my greasy hair, fuzz-covered face, faded jeans and an Incredible Hulk t-shirt, so I didn't.

I woke up this morning when the alarm went off. I opened one eye, looked around, then carefully sat up and surveyed my tiny, cat-free bedroom. In an excellent mood, I got up and headed to the bathroom, only to discover a tan kitten drinking out of my toilet bowl. The hell with a shower. I went back into the bedroom, grabbed some clothes and got dressed in a hurry, then headed out the door with a handful of Oreos for breakfast.

It was windy downtown, and I was embarassed by my appearance, so I headed up the street to Bruegger's and bought a bagel with the money from the preppie, then ate it on the way home. Along the way, I passed the campus of Metropolitan State University and it's towering, 1930's library building that I've been meaning to visit, but I didn't go in. There were no cats to be found when I got home.

I haven't gotten any mail, not even junk mail, in days. I wonder if one of those three- or four-letter government agencies is intercepting it, and, if so, what they make of my long-awaited catalog of mail-order women from Estonia?
Had a couple of hot dogs for dinner, played Crazy Taxi for an hour or so, then went to bed exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Worked for a while writing advertising copy for a sex-toy catalog, but I found myself in "one of those moods", and after looking at the most recent product description I'd done and seeing "Ding dong, this dildo's red", I decided the customer would probably be happier if I took an extra day on the project. I'd been thinking all day about the University library, and decided that it deserved some personal, intimate attention from me. The rooftop, I figured, should provide a great view of downtown.

I gathered together my camera equipment and headed out at around four in the afternoon. I was only blocks from the building when I realized I had forgotten to bring a lens shade with. Since it's a well-documented fact that you can't take a truly professional photograph without a lens hood, I retraced my steps and spent a fruitless hour searching my apartment for the shade. I can't imagine what happened to it; maybe one of the mystery cats took it. By the time I gave up looking it was almost five-thirty, too late to take pictures anyway, so I went to Plan B.

With nothing more than a minimag flashlight, some lockpicks, and a heavy, dark-green janitor's coverall, I returned to the university. It was cloudy and about 70, but the coverall was deathly hot. If I must suffer to pursue my art, so be it. My father went through far worse in college. I got to the library just after six - I was walking slowly, so as not to pass out from polyester-induced heatstroke - and found the front doors locked. I didn't care; I'd been expecting that, and besides, front doors are for normal people.

A slow walk along the sidewalk brought me to an emergency exit that was propped open with a metal bucket. After looking around carefully to make sure nobody was watching, I opened the door and stepped through, being careful not to overturn the bucket, which was half-full of cigarette butts. I stood in a vast, dimly-lit passageway, painted in peeling paint a shade last fashionable decades before I was born, and lit only by a few sickly flickering fluorescent tubes. A back hallway, in other words. It smelled faintly of smoke, and I almost turned around and left, but but I reasoned that a hallway such as this was probably better ventilated than a sandstone cave, so I wasn't too worried. It was probably one of the fluorescent ballasts shorting out.

I followed the dark and gloomy concrete passage towards the center of this vast, art-deco monument to learning and soon found myself on the ground floor of the library proper. For a leading midwestern two-year college, the quantity of books on hand was greatly disappointing. More than half the floorspace was devoted to row after row of computers, their blue screens lending the room an eldritch aura of mystery and intrigue.

I had wanted to make it to the roof, to stand high above the 7th Street ghetto and look down upon the Burger King with impunity, to feel the cool breeze of summer caressing my face, to above all remind myself what it truly means to be free. I couldn't, though, because there was no roof access. There were no more floors above the first - just a vast open space of glass and steel that on a more narrative day would have been lit a rich golden color by the rays of the setting sun, but today just looked drab and depressing.

Since I hadn't brought a camera with - curse that stupid, missing lens hood! - I stole a little wooden pencil from the information desk to prove I'd really been here, then retraced my steps and let myself out the way I came in and hurried home to get out of the stupid coverall, have something to drink, and take a shower. That first Diet Fresca tasted like ambrosia! Let me tell you, there's nothing better than a carbonated beverage after a successful live infiltration!

It must be fate. Or genetics, I suppose. If not, I fear the universe is out to get me, for a cat - the same kitten that was drinking from my toilet on Thursday, in fact - was in my bathroom this morning when I got out of the shower. Just as before, she was drinking thirstily from the toilet bowl. Why it chooses to do so is a mystery, but it does help support the tapwater-addiction theory I've been working on.

Unlike last time, the damned thing is still here, several hours later. We had a long talk, in which I tried to get it to admit to being the shapeshifting alien lifeform it really is, and not a cat at all, but it said and did nothing to give itself away. As I was explaining my father's history with aliens to it, the silly little thing walked off and went to sleep on a pile of clothes on my bedroom floor. I am not so easily put off, though; we will finish that conversation, mark my words.

It woke up as I was having dinner, stole a hot-dog from my plate, and ate most of it, quite messily, on the carpet. I know I shouldn't sit on the floor to eat, not even when "COPS" is on, but it still demonstrates a remarkable lack of manners in my extraterrestrial visitor. It ran around the apartment for a bit, then went to sleep, or pretended to, on the rug in the bathroom. I refuse to feed or clothe this uninvited visitor; if she wants to sleep here, well, fine, but I'm not going to inconvenience myself for her. I'd considered being kind to it, buying it toys and showing it affection in the hopes of getting into it's good graces; some of the aliens my father met in his job were downright hotties, and being in her good graces could be enjoyable when she tires of the charade and reveals her true form. I've decided, however, to remain true to my principles; if she can't appreciate me for my strength of character, then, alien or not, she's not good enough for me.

I realized as I was cleaning my pen this evening that getting to the roof of the library yesterday would have been a disappointment, as it's a steeply-canted copper roof, not the flat, explorer-friendly kind. It's kind of embarassing; my father wouldn't have made that sort of mistake, but he was better at that sort of thing - at everything, really - than I am.

I bought a newspaper this afternoon, for the first time in months, and was amazed to discover that America's second-greatest living writer, Berkley Breathed, has in these dark and troubled times returned to the classic art of cartooning with a new strip called "Opus", featuring all the lovable, hilarious characters from the sorely-missed "Bloom County". Though the standards of journalism have sunk incredibly low in the print media in this country, it's good to see that the funny pages have retained their excellent form and unwavering standards.

I used the sports and travel sections to clean up the kitten's all-too-intentional "accidents" on the kitchen linoleum. For the price, you'd think they could use a rather more absorbant paper than the present, practically waterproof stuff.

After the third such "accident" by my unwanted extraterrestrial houseguest, I shredded the local section of the paper into a lasagna pan as a makeshift litterbox. It was a painful concession to make, but the alternative - cleaning further spots out of the carpet - is simply too time consuming in my busy, demanding day. Besides, I'm running low on baking soda.

I hate father's day; it's starry-eyed adoration of those who have sired children serves only to remind me that I never have, nor had the opportunity to do so.

I completely fail to understand the attraction of pornography. In part, this is because nudity and nakedness run hand-in-hand, and taking pleasure in the latter does little more than to cheapen and degrade women. A naked woman is usually vulnerable and defenseless, or at least appears that way. Nakedness isn't attractive; it's cheap and common. Where's the allure in that? I'd much rather see feisty, fully-clothed, dominant women, the kind who are confident and assertive, and look it. A woman who can look and act sexy in a pair of jeans and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt is a powerful, attractive woman indeed. I believe that men naturally want to be dominated and controlled by the fair sex, and that the widespread preference for the cheap, trashy nekkid porn is the product of a long-term government plot to slowly but effectively emasculate the men of this country by instilling in us the longing to be ordered about by goose-pimpled co-eds with no poise, no charisma, no command presence or air of authority, just a fake tan and big hooters.

Still no mail, for over a week now. I'm down to using a sickly blue-grey ink in my fountain pen; my order of blue and black Quink should have arrived days ago.

Alien seems fascinated by my clear glass coffee table. I suppose tempered silica is an amazing oddity to such an advanced race of spacefaring creatures.

Got up late today, staggered around in my usual post-waking stupor, did the email thing, then sat down to work on the toy catalog some more. Finished the gags, which was quite difficult - it's a ball, it's on a strap, it's a gag, what more can you really say? - and finished most of the merkins before fully waking up.

Was prompted to make lunch by the plaintive wailing of the cat; It would seem this creature is not so advanced that in can absorb nutrients through the air and toilet water, but actually requires food. Much though I am loathe to, I feed it, though there is little choice involved - in it's current form this creature is remarkably fast, if graceless, and shows a remarkable tenaciousness where the theft of food is concerned.

After making a large omelette with cheese, onions, and leftover SPAM, I sat down to eat and watch the 6pm news on Channel 8. I gave the alien the last bit of the omelette, which it ate - except for the chunks of SPAM - before falling asleep on the bottom shelf of the bookcase next to the stereo.

Saw on the news that the first person in the UK ever shot by police with a tazer was sentanced in court. Either the country's law enforcement is painfully outdated, or the speed of the American legal system isn't as farcical an oddity as I'd thought. In either case, the man got quite a light sentance, which is a bit of a disappointment; the magistrate had a wonderful opportunity to send a clear, decisive message to others who would consider drinking to excess and drunkenly threatening to commit suicide in public, but blew it.

My long-awaited ink finally arrived. I carefully examined the package for signs of tampering, but the government it getting better, and I wasn't able to find any. I can now go back to recording for posterity the thrilling details of my life with a pleasant blue or black ink, and not the weak, characterless grey I'd been forced to use these past weeks.

My hand is cramping... I'm going to bed.

I was reading in bed this evening when I was struck by an idea - an idea of sheer, brilliant genius, one of those splendid once-in-a-lifetime epiphinies that make you tremble in awe at the depth of your own insight. I ran out into the living room, grabbed a piece of paper and hunted around for a writing implement to record my idea in all it's glory. I grabbed my souvenir pencil from Met State's library off it's place on a bookshelf, set graphite to paper, and then stood motionless in my tightey-whiteys, dismayed.

The pencil - my proof - my only proof - that I'd snuck into the closed library after hours like a ninja, was a cheap, unmarked little pencil of the sort found, well, everywhere, really. As concrete proof of my most masterful exploit ever, it was worthless.

Depressed and on the verge of tears, I went to bed and lay there for some time, feeling lonely and stupid. Eventually I remembered why I was looking for a pencil in the first place, but by then I'd forgotten what the great idea was. I lay there, hugging the alien (in her cat guise), until I fell asleep, still unable to remember my great idea. Oh well, it'll come to me.