This is my dog, The Noobers, in possibly the greatest costume ever.

I'm going to look for a Mogwai costume for next year. I am convinced that he is a gremlin.

I went as Marv from Sin City. I nearly got in a fight with some cops, just to stay in character. No, I wouldn't do that. I did speak to a couple of officers when they came to our Halloween party (The Nightmare Off Elm Street). They were pretty friendly. When I first saw them I wondered if they were guys in costume because one of them was named Officer Bacon.

Their weapons looked real enough so I tried to show a little restraint.

The costumes at the party were great. My roommates, Brian, Virginia, and Molly, went as Sin City characters as well: Hartigan, Nancy, and Shelly, respectively. Kelly was dressed (or rather, undressed) as Marv's parole officer, Lucille. There was also a Jack Skelington and Sally, Skeletor and She-Ra, a flamboyant I-Pod with working speakers, Donnie Darko, Ali G, a slew of women in costumes that weren't really costumes but were certainly provocative, and, my favorite, Mike dressed up as The Most Fabulous Rainbow.

I'm proud to have such intelligent, creative, genuine friends that will unabashedly don their wife's formal wear. Brings a tear to my eye, it does.

PS. Blogger's "Recover post" option is one of the greatest ideas ever.

At lecture for my creative writing class, my professor brought up rewriting. "Do you look at something you've written and want to rewrite it?" he addressed us all. There was murmur of confirmation. His eyes darted around the room. "Why is that?"

I raised my hand. "I think that when you first write something, you still hold a lot of the assumptions you've made about the character, the motivations, that sort of stuff. But as time goes by and you grow away from what you've written, you forget a lot of those assumptions you made before and you can see where you might have taken shortcuts or written something out of character..." I trailed off.

"Wow, that's good stuff," he said as I tried not to appear to pleased with myself. "That's pretty deep. Have you taken like an advanced composition class or something?"

I shook my head. "No, but I did take English 102 three times."

The class murmured in laughter.

I contemplated hopping onto one of the long desks and doing a little soft-shoe, but I remembered G-Man's suggestion that it is better to leave 'em wanting more. I took the advice, but I was reluctant. I so seldom have a decent segue into a good soft-shoe.

I didn't finish my story on time. I got an extension. My new deadline is in 4 hours and I am pleased to say that I have just met it.

I was in Los Angeles (the city of Angels, although I didn't find it to be that exactly) this weekend for the wedding of my friends Jody and Ben. It was delightful. I'd never been to a Jewish wedding before. It seems that a little culture goes a long way.

Open bars also go a long way. In this case, from the wedding to the reception hall to the hotel bar to the honeymoon suite until I finally ended up at Verina's home around seven in the morning. Or maybe it was eight. Daylight savings time kicked in that night, so 2 am became 1 am and I had the novel experience of two last calls in one outing.

I must go and make copies of my story. There are many miles before we sleep.

Good writers don't have to rely on inspiration. But I do. I rely very heavily on it. It's like an opiate and if I don't get it, I'll quickly find myself shivering on the floor and vomiting into my Spiderman wastebasket.

My laptop has abandoned me. I'm not completlely by surprise. The feisty little machine had been slowly breaking my heart for the past year and a half. First, the sound went away. Then, my video capability. My CD drive became more functional as a drink coaster than anything else. But I did not despair because I still had my crappy Wordpad and my fickle internet connection.

Now, as I sit in the University library at 5:50 in the morning (I've been here since 11 pm) and I stare at the little heap of dead stories in my computer tray I wonder if there is some way to take off my pants without immediately being pepper-sprayed by security. And, if there is, will I have enough time to write ten pages of fiction?

It's not too late, though. My roommates have computers. I have friends with computers. I have three hours before I actually have to be at an actual class, and 7 hours until this story is due. I'll think of something.

Won't I?

Hmm. Allegedly, there is some sort of literary magazine that is accepting what is commonly referred to as "submissions." I may submit something if I can get over the terminology.

Because in general I submit to no one! Only to abstract concepts like hunger, weakness, temptation, malaise, and dinosaur comics!

Thus I contemplate.

Heh, I'll send them some poetry. Now who is submitting to whom?

I have nothing to lose, but I can't shake this nagging feeling that I'm someone's literary bitch.

I'm up early this morning. Historically I have never slept well after nights of flagrant disregard for point of view and proper tense.

Or it could be all the Tang I drank. How do astronauts do it? I'd have space madness in record time. If I ever leave the Earth's atmosphere, I'll be certain to smuggle some Country Time Lemonade with me. I could drink that stuff all-to-live-long day. Probably 'cause I don't know what I'm getting.

I have a very interesting design on my inner arm. Since it is on my left arm and very weak conceptually, I assume I drew it, probably with one of the dry-erase markers that lie around the house. I suspect the blue one.

methinks has a birthday soon. Unless it passed. I'm not sure. Just to be safe, I shall celebrate over a blanket few days. Hell, I may even finish the meme she sent me which at the moment is residing in the electronic limbo of being a saved draft on Blogger. It is in elite company, as there are only two other drafts in there.

methinks was kind enough to let me know that I had been tagged. I was confused at first. I thought she meant more nature-show-documentary-kind of tagging. I imagined some brightly colored plastic tube filled with electronics firmly affixed by a tiny harpoon barb buried in my skin. I would hear it beep in rhythm with my heartbeat, but it would always hover just on the edge of my vision.

Not that any such device would be very exciting. Day 1: In his room. Day 2: Rearranging his room. Day 3: Washing his sheets and one pair of white athletic socks. Day 4: Going out to a bar; apparently fighting a bus. Day 5: Back in his room.

I predict a mad dash to cash the checks for the research grants and an equally mad dash to stop said check-cashers.

But enough about me. How are you? I see by your research tag that you've been pushing your own boundaries as well.

At least, that's what the data suggests. It's hard to really know without going native.

No Gurg?! I'm sorry. When I get upset I tend to withdraw.

Either that or...

inundate you with drunken ramblings!

Week Two of My Misadventures finds Guillermo suffering an all-too-familiar ethical dilemma.

Well, here I am, suffering this same ol' ethical dilemma. I wonder what I should do?

FUTURE GUILLERMO: Well, you could do what you always do and spiral down a path of angst and woe that you can easily translate to the common observer.

PRESENT GUILLERMO: How dare you refer to my observers as common?! I declare that they are as uncommon as any other!

FUTUR GUILLERMO: You will regret that statement.

PRESENT GUILLERMO: Ha! I regret nothing! What do you know, Future Self!

FUTURE GUILLERMO: Mostly everything ever.

PRESENT GUILLERMO: Well, we'll see about that!

Later, in the Future:

Guillermo: I should learn to trust myself! I seldom have reason to lie.