While waiting for the water to boil, I notice the date. The 13th of June. A Friday.

Not that I would care -- why should I care -- but my heart was beating in huge, choking gulps this morning, bulging against my ribcage and I have no explanation: do 23-year-olds die of heart attacks? Jesus, I'm not that fat am I, and I'm not dying like that, not in some middleschool fucking Goosebumps version of a horror story.

Thirty minutes later I'm thinking about my own funeral like a heartbroken 14 year old playing with his dad's shotgun in his little sister's bedroom.

I mix oil and milk, crushed black pepper curls between them in perfect sequence. These spirals are everywhere, I obsess over them, the branching of trees, the patterns of clouds, a whorl of water, a curdling of milk, the unfathomable limbs stretching from a supernova's heat. And I wonder about the pattern of my heart and all the deaths and masterpieces and if I listen to Conor, he says it's all a "still life posed. Like a bowl of o-oranges."

Somewhere, I can see his point. Complexity isn't chaos -- it's order. Manufactured simplicity is the only chaos I've found. Our 6-sided structures, brick and beam construction, disposable architecture, flat rolled and oiled parking lots, the monotone songs of our motors, our horns, un-undulating, desperate and lacking the lungs to howl. That great white hum of energy: the universe's pitch-less grave marker.

So I was smoking with Yurie at the pond the other day, letting the ripples of wind and water and dragonflies mess me back to a little less machine when this girl, maybe 18, walks in all paranoid, puffing on her glass little pipe and telling me she's like, so, over college and she's part of this new theatre group, have you heard of it, and then she tells me that film's like a dream. I write her off, mostly because she sounds like every other wannabe hippy I've ever met and I kind of want to tell her I went to Bible College just so she'll leave, but later that night, I'm dreaming and realize she's right. My dreams cut.

And lately, I can't trust them. When I cut back to Kate, she's an old woman and I wake up sweating and locking eyes with her in bed. Jesus.

Anyway, it's the Friday the Thirteenth. It would be ironic, to be sure, if I died today, but I kind of doubt I will if for no other reason that I've written this little mumbling attempt at an entry here and I think God hates emo deaths just as much as the next guy.

My heart, it's probably just caffeine. And the waiting to hear back about this internship and all the being alone in my cafe all day. I'm taking a shower, I'm getting out of here.

My soul isn't where my heart is... it's six inches to the right.

Last week, I went to LipSync.  This was a mistake.  Obviously.   I went to support my brother-in-law because he was doing a brilliant, non-sequitur Andy Kaufman skit.  I went to applaud the guts it would take to do an Andy Kaufman skit at Moody because, honestly, I thought I might be the only one applauding.

And it wasn't all bad.  For instance, people who were made to dance were dancing.  I applaud that.  They should do that more often; it was stunning.  As was Michael Jackson.  As was Luke impersonating Andy Kaufman.   I didn't even mind some of the overlong and sadly ambitious skits; sure, it felt a little like high school, but whatever, they were having fun. 

But then, as you could expect, things got a little not-so-fun.  For instance, the comment from the emcee referring to Asian-Americans (well, he actually inexplicably grouped Korean and Indian peoples in this category) as "you people."  Obviously, he didn't mean this as a hate-crime.  So let's just call this ignorance.  Shockingly ignorant, but let's leave it at that. 

From here, it just gets better.  When a skit featuring a half-dozen ragged brides capturing and feigning over their male hostage was over, the same emcee turned to Pam MaCrae and asked her what she thought of that as "head of the 'women's ministry' department."  I can only hope his intention wasn't as misogynistic as his delivery, but nonetheless, the lack of respect is inexcusable.  Toss on top of that the four or five "Brokeback Mountain" jokes of the evening and you've got yourself one heckuva party.

I mean, it's not like these are problems here, right?  It's not like minorities -- that handful of students who stand outside our racially homogeneous campus -- have to struggle with these kinds of ignorant comments here daily, is it? It's not like they'd be offended by being condescended to once again, right?  And I'm sure no one here struggles with their sexuality.  It's not like Christians have ostracized the gay community enough already, right?  And thank God that women here feel like true equals.  Thank God they get the intellectual and vocational respect they deserve on this truly accepting and diverse campus. 

This isn't funny.  This is shameful.  And I don't care where you stand on Gay Marriage or Male Leadership or Affirmative Action.  This is just disrespectful. 

And I'm not trying to guilt trip anyone.  I don't have a personal vendetta against whoever was emceeing the event and when my wife and I move in a few months, I doubt that I'll spend too much time thinking about this campus. But. For what it's worth. This has to change.  Enough is enough.  It's time to grow up.