November 29, 2004

I promise to stop talking about my roommate so much after this.

Rumor has it that Tuesday nights are dry nights at the local gay bars. After plans were made to start my Thanksgiving vacation with hot gay sex, or at least the promise of, I was feeling pretty damn pleased.

My roommates were heading home Tuesday, choosing to skip classes to make it to the airport before the huge rush. I was going to have the entire place to myself, and was going to fill it with copious amounts of hot naked men who wished to service my every sexual need. That was the plan.

Now, this may come a suprise to some of you, but I'm fairly meek and mild-mannered in real life. I don't enjoy meeting people, and am timid and stand-offish until I get to know a person. Fortunately, a few people from the building, who could be described as 'fag hags' if I were the sort of person to use a term like 'fag hag,' planned to come along with me to help lubricate me socially with alcohol beforehand and make sure that my mojo was working. We have good people in this building. Good people who are sick of my complaining about my complete inability to get laid in any way, shape and form.

It's been one year, people. I am getting cranky.

Well, at least I thought they were good people. Slowly but surely, however, one by one they all called my cell to apologize, but plans had changed and they couldn't make it on Tuesday. Figures--women are nothing but bitches and hos.

Tuesday morning rolls around, and I'm working to find a ride home early; it's not like I'm one to go out by myself. I come back to the room to find my roommate at his computer. Peering over his shoulder, I find he's on

"Yeah, I heard that everyone bailed, and I was just seeing if I could change my flight to tomorrow, so that you don't have to go alone."

Even though it didn't work out, I swear to god, I could have kissed him.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.