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2003-02-08 1:04 a.m.

Tonight I decided to be ambitious and walk to the beach. Cabiria and friends were rumored to be there having a beach burn. Now, normally there is nothing terribly appealing to me about beach burns. Basically, a bunch of people huddle around a fire for warmth and drink my least favorite beverage, beer. ("Beer, it's like drinking urine, only not as funny.") And being at or near the ocean means metric tons of horrible sand literally leaping into orifices you didn't even know you had.

Wait, so why would I want this to happen to me? I wondered.

Basically, I didn't have much else to do, and I knew that at least one of my friends would be there—Cabiria. Plus, I was really looking forward to walking off some of my evening's stupid gluttony. Let me explain. I have plenty of will power, but no won't power. This means that dinner involved me stuffing fistful after fistful of food into that big hole in the middle of my stupid fat face until I found myself in serious need of elastic waistband pants. I just don't know how to say no—I keep eating and eating.

The beach burn was supposed to be at Stairwell 28, a beach situated six blocks north of my house—six very long blocks. I wished it was farther, though. I needed a very long walk to counteract my recent transgressions against my stomach. I don't think I am going to look so good in elastic waistband pants.

So, I put on about fifty layers of clothes to protect my tender skin from the frigid arctic chill that I call San Francisco. I made sure to choose non–porous clothes in order to help keep my orifices as sand–free as possible. Anyone who has ever experienced the supernatural penetrating power of sand knows that this is a battle I can never win. Visiting the beach without getting totally sand–raped is wishful thinking at best.

Andie had an upset stomach from the massive amount of food we consumed just minutes before, so she curled up in bed and told me to have fun without her. Dude. What a lazy slut!

It was OK, though. I love to walk alone. It always feels nice to get some time to myself to walk and think and quietly drink in the crisp, night air.

I opened the front door and stepped out into the cold. And as I walked, my mind wandered.

I thought about nothing particularly deep or lasting except the feeling that I wanted to pour a milkshake over my head. In the Penn and Teller book How to Play With Your Food, Penn writes about how he was about to get beaten up by two truckers in some Midwestern diner. Scared for his safety and not knowing what else to do, he did what any other brilliant young man would do. He poured his milkshake over his head. The two truckers thought Penn was insane and figured it was better to leave him alone. Plus they didn't want to get milkshake on their fists.

I don't know why, but I have thought about pouring a milkshake over my head at least once a day for weeks now.

The beach burn was OK. I didn't stay for long. Once I arrived it didn't take long for me to remember why I never go to the beach—it sucks. It's cold, sandy, and I hate the way fires smell. So I walked home and thought a bit more about milkshakes. I wondered if I would ever pour one over my head. What flavor would it be? Would I let it slowly drip down my skin, or would I deliberately smear it into my eyes and hair and navel and down into my underwear? Or maybe a combination of both? I guess I'll just have to see how things pan out.

All I know is that right now I am going to sleep to dream milkshake dreams.