The iconic Friday night is to be spent young and full of idealism and innocence and infatuation, going to the movies with 'your girl.' She is blonde and still wears her hair in a ponytail. Maybe she's wearing your letter jacket; maybe you're 'pinned' or 'going steady.' You picked her up in your dad's Corvette, which you had to beg to borrow, and made it past the hard part of the night, convincing her father that you aren't a sex pervert and that your intentions are in fact, honorable. Surprisingly, they more-or-less are.
You bought the tickets, of course, and the popcorn and the soda. After the lights were lowered, you casually did the 'yawn with outstretched arms' trick, and she fell for it. At a scary point in the movie she would hold your hand and squeeze, or, if you were lucky, she would grab your leg--your knee, really--leaving you erect for the rest of the night (you always tried to go to the sci-fi films, with aliens attacking the earth, for this very reason). If the movie gets slow, her head might start to nuzzle the nape of your neck, and you'd reciprocate. She'd move her head up to whisper something in your ear, but you misread the signals and move your lips to hers, and she's too polite to say no and too bored to come up with a reason to stop.
Of course, in real life, she probably snuck out to see the movie with you, and you're not so much going steady as much as she is of the opposite gender who gets horny at convenient intervals. Her hair is cropped too short for a ponytail, and has seen more colors than her nails. You probably didn't pay for the tickets, instead sneaking in a back door, or at the very least switched movie theatres, creating your own double-feature.
As soon as the lights are out, your arm is around the back of her chair. By the end of the opening credits, your tongue is down her throat. It's a horror film, and by the time the townspeople are baffled at the first death, your left hand is on her breast, kneading it like a mammogram and milking the nipple erect. Your jacket, if you bring one at all, is conveniently draped over your lap, covering your erection. You whisper something in her ear, but all she can hear over the sounds of a young blonde girl getting stabbed by a long knife are the words "blue balls," and she relents. Her right hand goes down and unzips your pants. She fumbles with your boxers, finding it hard to get your cock out, and to find a way to bend your hardness out the slit, so you must do it. To her, your cock feels shorter than it really is, with at least an inch buried under your baggy jeans and your plaid boxers.
She feels dirty now. You're really getting into it, but as her wrist starts pumping, her head surveys the audience, hoping no one notices. She’s biting her lip, devoting more energy on her surroundings than on your cock, but she’s still getting the job done, and it never takes much. You start panting, louder and louder. Fortunately, the killer is chasing another buxom blonde across the screen, and no one notices. You let out a gasp and you make a mess on the inside of your jacket and on her hand. She sits there, mortified, while your breathing subsides in post-coital bliss. You both sort of just sit there, not sure how to clean up and not sure who the ‘real’ killer is.
If you’re gay, of course, you drove to the theatre alone, parking a few blocks away in case someone recognized your car. You wore a loose-fitting t-shirt, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and baggy pants, without any underwear. You felt awkward as you bought your ticket, sure that the balding man at the ticket booth was judging you, or at the least checking you out, leering with dead eyes, and you scurried past the decrepit lobby and into the theatre.
The movie is already going; it has a name and stars and a director and a plot, but none of that matters. The only thing on the screen is flesh and hairy legs. Judging by the skin tone, there are at least four men on the screen, but you can’t tell for sure and it doesn’t make a difference. You sit near the back, the only person in your row. You absent-mindedly watch the screen, your erection pressing against your pants. You get lost in the rhythmic thrusts of the legs onscreen—it’s almost like a lava-lamp, the flesh giving way to a hypnotic meld of heat and elasticity, where after a few minutes it’s hard to tell where one man ends and the other begins.
Someone sits in your row, a few seats down. Your breath quickens. You make sidelong glances, hoping that you don’t know the guy. You sit transfixed on the screen, almost ostentatiously, your hand slipping down to your crotch. You tap your foot, the one closest to your stranger. He stands up, and moves over, sitting next to you now. He smells like someone familiar, but you can’t put your finger on it, cigarettes and sweat and cologne like your stepfather used to wear. He paws at your crotch, pleased at what he finds but his hands are grimy. You see the glint of what must be a wedding ring on one of his fingers.
He clears his throat, about to say something, but you’re not in the mood and you were never good at small talk anyway. You grunt, not really words, but he gets the jist of it, and is on his knees in a matter of seconds. He takes you fully with the first try, and then gags as your head passes his tonsils. He’s sloppy, and you can feel his spit rolling down your shaft and coalescing in your pubes. You put your hand on his head, on his short thinning blonde hair, taking control of the situation, as your neck relaxes and you rest your head on the back of the seat, staring absently at the ceiling, at what once must have been a nice theatre, removing yourself from your head and just focusing in on the stranger’s seemingly unnatural appetite.
You start to absent-mindedly thrust your hips, trying to speed along the process. The guy’s head is a piston between your legs, lubing your shaft, but ultimately there isn’t enough friction. You watch the screen, hoping to speed things up, but the disembodied torsos have lost all their erotic appeal. You close your eyes and focus in on your past, about how one time in college your friend had gotten dumped and you took him out to get drunk to ease the pain, and you two came back to your apartment shitfaced, and you gave him your first blowjob. The memory triggers something in you, and you quickly tap the back of the guys head to give him warning, but it’s too late, as you shoot in his mouth and he greedily laps it up. He keeps nursing at it, even as it grows soft in his mouth, and you have to push his head to one side. You don’t even rezip your pants, you just stand up, make sure you aren’t coming out of your fly, and walk out the door to the exit.
Of course, if you were me, none of this happened. You spent your Friday night babysitting, and not in any sort of iconic way, sending the kids off to bed early while your boyfriend snuck in so you could make out on the couch while watching tv, keeping an ear open in case the parents came home early or in case the kids came downstairs in need of a drink of water.
Nothing like that. Instead, after sending the older kids off to bed, you carried the blonde two-year old in your arms, his stringy hair tickling your clavicle, while watching "Finding Nemo," his favorite video. His breathing steadies, and his repetitions of 'Dude' as Crash, the 150-year old turtle gives directions, grow fainter as his eyes droop and close for the night. You sit on the couch and hold him, feel his body heat as his skin sticks to yours, and continue to watch the movie.
You’ve always wanted to spend your Friday night with a blonde guy (you’ve only ever dated or slept with brunettes, interestingly enough), watching a movie, cuddling on a couch, but this isn’t what you had in mind. But it’ll have to do.
May 30, 2006
May 24, 2006
Sweet Bird of Youth
As a child, I was expected to light the world on fire.
I had leads in school plays, solos in choir, lettered in academia, ruled my arts high school, even teaching a few classes (under a real teacher's supervision). I spoke 3 languages. I was on the library board and the board for the local arts alliance. My parents would come back from parent-teacher confrences glowing, saying that every single one of my teachers thought that I could go far in whatever field they taught, from science to math to English or theatre (the sole exception was my dance teacher, who said I had promise, but you can't really begin a dancing career in high school).
The world remains unlit. Damp, even. The opposite of flammable.
I don't have anything legitimate or impressive to put on my resume. I don't have much of a social life, and even less of one now that I'm living at home for the summer. I don't have hobbies (at the very least my hobbies are sedentary and solitary). I'm becoming less and less motivated as I get closer and closer to graduation, like a deer in headlights, not really knowing what to do.
I know, I know. I'm young, there's still time. But Bret Easton Ellis had two books under his belt by the time he was my age. Rimbaud had exploded with creativity and given up poetry all together. Michael Moore was elected to public office. Dostoevsky had written his first novel. Mandy Moore had had a hit album, and Bow Wow has had like, four. Basquiat was a big name in the arts scene. Alexander Hamilton was famous for his literary attacks on Parliment. Dozens of young people are mentioned in the latest TeenPeople magazine for starting their own charity at the age of 14.
And I, to put it succinctly, stand and scan. For hours and hours. Sometimes I go do carts, but mostly I just stand and scan.
Why the sudden burst of meloncholia, then?
Because today I showed up for work and found out that I was to train two people who flunked out of my high school. I remember being in classes with them, how they'd sit in the back and just sort of stare blankly if the teacher called on them, or how they'd constantly forget to do homework. One was even suspended for putting vodka in his water bottle.
Sure, it was kinda awkward training them, as I recognized them and they recognized me. But it was also depressing. I work with high school dropouts. I may have a bit more clout, but not much. They'll be one register down, doing the same thing as I. Standing and scanning. There are 'lifers' who've been doing this for years, including one woman who remembered when she used to type in the UPC codes by hand, with no scanner.
If I had more motivation, I would find another job, or a second job. Even if it didn't pay as well per hour, but to have something else, not to surround myself with high school kids, dropouts, and lifers. But if I had more motivation, I probably would have found a decent internship for the summer, or at least a job down in Madison, where if I had a shitty job, at least I'd be living on my own and hanging out with friends with shitty, temporary jobs, instead of people who stay here and see it as a career, not a crappy summer job.
Anyone know where I can buy a fuse?
I had leads in school plays, solos in choir, lettered in academia, ruled my arts high school, even teaching a few classes (under a real teacher's supervision). I spoke 3 languages. I was on the library board and the board for the local arts alliance. My parents would come back from parent-teacher confrences glowing, saying that every single one of my teachers thought that I could go far in whatever field they taught, from science to math to English or theatre (the sole exception was my dance teacher, who said I had promise, but you can't really begin a dancing career in high school).
The world remains unlit. Damp, even. The opposite of flammable.
I don't have anything legitimate or impressive to put on my resume. I don't have much of a social life, and even less of one now that I'm living at home for the summer. I don't have hobbies (at the very least my hobbies are sedentary and solitary). I'm becoming less and less motivated as I get closer and closer to graduation, like a deer in headlights, not really knowing what to do.
I know, I know. I'm young, there's still time. But Bret Easton Ellis had two books under his belt by the time he was my age. Rimbaud had exploded with creativity and given up poetry all together. Michael Moore was elected to public office. Dostoevsky had written his first novel. Mandy Moore had had a hit album, and Bow Wow has had like, four. Basquiat was a big name in the arts scene. Alexander Hamilton was famous for his literary attacks on Parliment. Dozens of young people are mentioned in the latest TeenPeople magazine for starting their own charity at the age of 14.
And I, to put it succinctly, stand and scan. For hours and hours. Sometimes I go do carts, but mostly I just stand and scan.
Why the sudden burst of meloncholia, then?
Because today I showed up for work and found out that I was to train two people who flunked out of my high school. I remember being in classes with them, how they'd sit in the back and just sort of stare blankly if the teacher called on them, or how they'd constantly forget to do homework. One was even suspended for putting vodka in his water bottle.
Sure, it was kinda awkward training them, as I recognized them and they recognized me. But it was also depressing. I work with high school dropouts. I may have a bit more clout, but not much. They'll be one register down, doing the same thing as I. Standing and scanning. There are 'lifers' who've been doing this for years, including one woman who remembered when she used to type in the UPC codes by hand, with no scanner.
If I had more motivation, I would find another job, or a second job. Even if it didn't pay as well per hour, but to have something else, not to surround myself with high school kids, dropouts, and lifers. But if I had more motivation, I probably would have found a decent internship for the summer, or at least a job down in Madison, where if I had a shitty job, at least I'd be living on my own and hanging out with friends with shitty, temporary jobs, instead of people who stay here and see it as a career, not a crappy summer job.
Anyone know where I can buy a fuse?
May 22, 2006
Trash!
In elementary school, I was in some of the worst plays you could possibly think of. I thought theatre was fun, and it sure beat T-ball. It was mostly little community things, some which travelled around to schools in the area, playing to gymnasiums filled with first through third graders who are still really impressed by everything. Once I was a crayon who had the 'blues.' Another time I was a wind spirit who spread joy to all the flowers, letting them know that the recent addition to the garden could help make their bouquet even prettier. I have played a homesick clown, a cantakerous goose, and a farmer down on his luck, in addition to various choruses, townspeople, and countless princes. (To say nothing of 'real' parts in real plays, like the Laramie Project or Tony and Tina's Wedding.)
The second play I was ever in was called "The Treasure Makers." In it, I played a noble upstanding citizen (with an awe-inspiring solo in the second act, if I do say so myself) who is part of a committee who wishes to turn the local junkyard into a much-needed parking lot downtown next to the new art museum. We fought a group of good-hearted ruffians who made the junkyard their home, taking other people's trash and turning it into treasure. Thanks to a deus ex machina, the leader of the good-hearted ruffians and the founder of the committee are long-lost brother and sister, the treasure is considered "pop art" by the curator, and everyone learns a lesson, sings a song, hugs a new friend, and all the adults in the audience roll their eyes.
Every Earth day in elementary school, we would learn about the joys of the three Rs: Reduce! Reuse! Recycle! They were more importantant that Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithemetic, and what's more, they were grammatically correct as well! You can make a difference to the environment! This was before we really knew the difference between Democrats and Republicans (in the mock elections in elementary school, I voted for Bob Dole because we had the same name and I thought that was cool), and it was the environment, not some liberals trying to intrude into your personal life or conservatives drilling for oil. Everyone loves the environment--it's like trees and recess and Bambi and rainbows, all in one!
And then you grow up, and realize that nothing you do can make a difference. The grand disillusionment. Santa isn't real, the stork doesn't bring babies to Mommies and Daddies who love each other very much, and sorting your garbage into paper products, narrow-mouthed plastics and aluminum amount to about a hill of beans in the landfill. Making masks out of egg cartons and making collages from old magazines is fun and all, but it's not going to make a difference. If you and 100 of your friends got together and recycled absolutely everything you used over the course of an entire year, you wouldn't make a difference. People create only 2% of the waste--giggle giggle. More garbage is made in a grocery store over the course of a week than everyone you know could make in six months, even if those six months iunclude Christmas and spring cleaning.
But should that matter? Not really. It still feels good to recycle-- the Earth Day activities as a child worked. And its easier to be 'holier than thou' about the environment, and the people who are 'holier than thou' about recycling are going to be uptight about something, and it might as well be about trees and ponds and Bambi and flowers and rainbows and shit.
However, that's just literal trash. Tacky romance novels, Britney Spears' next album, and most blogs (but not yours, of course--yours is delightful!) are a whole different thought altogether.
The second play I was ever in was called "The Treasure Makers." In it, I played a noble upstanding citizen (with an awe-inspiring solo in the second act, if I do say so myself) who is part of a committee who wishes to turn the local junkyard into a much-needed parking lot downtown next to the new art museum. We fought a group of good-hearted ruffians who made the junkyard their home, taking other people's trash and turning it into treasure. Thanks to a deus ex machina, the leader of the good-hearted ruffians and the founder of the committee are long-lost brother and sister, the treasure is considered "pop art" by the curator, and everyone learns a lesson, sings a song, hugs a new friend, and all the adults in the audience roll their eyes.
Every Earth day in elementary school, we would learn about the joys of the three Rs: Reduce! Reuse! Recycle! They were more importantant that Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithemetic, and what's more, they were grammatically correct as well! You can make a difference to the environment! This was before we really knew the difference between Democrats and Republicans (in the mock elections in elementary school, I voted for Bob Dole because we had the same name and I thought that was cool), and it was the environment, not some liberals trying to intrude into your personal life or conservatives drilling for oil. Everyone loves the environment--it's like trees and recess and Bambi and rainbows, all in one!
And then you grow up, and realize that nothing you do can make a difference. The grand disillusionment. Santa isn't real, the stork doesn't bring babies to Mommies and Daddies who love each other very much, and sorting your garbage into paper products, narrow-mouthed plastics and aluminum amount to about a hill of beans in the landfill. Making masks out of egg cartons and making collages from old magazines is fun and all, but it's not going to make a difference. If you and 100 of your friends got together and recycled absolutely everything you used over the course of an entire year, you wouldn't make a difference. People create only 2% of the waste--giggle giggle. More garbage is made in a grocery store over the course of a week than everyone you know could make in six months, even if those six months iunclude Christmas and spring cleaning.
But should that matter? Not really. It still feels good to recycle-- the Earth Day activities as a child worked. And its easier to be 'holier than thou' about the environment, and the people who are 'holier than thou' about recycling are going to be uptight about something, and it might as well be about trees and ponds and Bambi and flowers and rainbows and shit.
However, that's just literal trash. Tacky romance novels, Britney Spears' next album, and most blogs (but not yours, of course--yours is delightful!) are a whole different thought altogether.
May 18, 2006
To write this way is like raving or a cloud.
It has just occurred to me that if I had at least one reader, he would probably burst out laughing at me, as at a most ridiculous adolescent who, having preserved his stupid innocence, barges with his reasonings and solutions into things he doesn't understand. Yes, indeed, I still don't understand, though I confess it not out of pride, because I know how stupid this inexperience at the age of twenty can be.
Thankless work and lacking in beautiful forms. And these types in any case are still a current matter, and therefore cannot be artistically finished. Major mistakes are possible, exaggerations, oversights. In any case, one would have to do too much guessing. What, though, is the writer to do who has no wish to write only in the historical genre and is possessed by a yearning for what is current? To guess... and be mistaken.
But 'Notes' such as yours could, it seems to me, serve as material for a future artistic work, for a future picture--of a disorderly but already bygone epoch. Oh, when the evil of the day is past and the future comes, then the future artist will find beautiful forms even for portraying the past disorder and chaos. It is then that 'Notes' like yours will be needed and will provide material--as long as they are sincere, even despite all that is chaotic and accidental about them... They will preserve at least certain faithful features by which to guess what might have been hidden in the soul of some adolescent of that troubled time--a not-entirely-insignificant knowledge, for the generations are made up of adolescents.
May 16, 2006
Are you? Experienced?
We're dogsitting for my Grandma for a few days, while she and her husband, the hyperconservative military veteran, go to a funeral upstate in Bumfuck, WI. While taking said mutt on her nightly walk, my mom bumped into a friend of hers. Well, I don't really know if they're friends or not, but they're awkward acquaintences from eternally sitting in waiting rooms and front lobbies waiting for their child's choir rehearsal or play auditions or soccer practice or whatever. They don't really have much to talk about except the goings-on of their children and the friends of their children.
It turns out, a girl who apparently graduated the same year I did (yet whose name I can't remember now for the life of me) is leaving today to go to Honduras for a year. She's decided to drop out of college and work on the Next Great American Novel. Since this is third-hand information, I don't know what her great novel is following, but I'm more than willing to bet its either The BellJar or whatever Oprah is shilling at the moment. Next Great American Novel, indeed.
At any rate, she decided to drop out/take a year off (my mom wasn't sure on that detail) because her short story wasn't accepted into the school literary magazine. She was told by the editor that her story wasn't mature enough, and she didn't have enough real-life experiences, and this is what popped into her head. Honduras.
Now, I've got nothing against real-life experiences. They can be fun and make for a good blog post. I love reading about real-life experiences in other people's blogs. However, I'm not entirely convinced that a 'real-life experience' is synonymous with 'no running water' or 'dysentry-ridden hell-hole.' Going to a 3rd-world country (or is Honduras 2nd world?) to volunteer and build huts or whatever is fine and dandy, but Whiteman is more historical liberal guilt than literary merit, and if it were me, I'd be sure to go to a country with vast supplies of writing utensils, paper products, and electricity for if/when the writing bug bites me. That way, I don't have to worry about other bugs biting me and infected me with diseases I can't pronounce in a country that doesn't even have running water.
I'm on dialup, and I'm too lazy to wait and see who actually said it, so I'm going to take full credit for the saying "The unexamined life is not worth living." I want to say it was Socrates, but he's dead and can't complain if I take credit. When it comes to writing that first novel, or anything, really, the inspiration comes from within. That's why there are so many bad first novels about single women struggling to find love and the perfect Prada dress, and first novels written about the former career of its author. Everyone loves a good story about coming of age, about drunk partiers and catty remarks about casual sex. A college student with patience and diligence should be able to write an interesting novel, or at the very least write a short story that doesn't get rejected from a small university in upstate Wisconsin. Bret Easton Ellis could do it, and he didn't have to go to Central America.
I don't have to travel to Honduras and forgo toilet paper and swear off hot sweaty manlove with drunk frat boys for a year to find inspiration for writing. I can do that here. I can write about hot sweaty manlove with drunk frat boys or the joys of toilet paper, though I'm willing to bet the former will be much more popular than the latter. Real-life experiences may be fun and all, but they tend to get in the way of, you know, the actual writing.
What am I saying exactly? I don't know. I'm willing to bet herblog myspace blog (shudder) is really lame, though. And she goes to a shitty state school, and if she couldn't get a story published there, she probably shouldn't be writing anyway. It's like getting a poem published in high school literary magazines; they kinda have to accept every selection, unless it swears or has 'inappropriate themes.' I hope she's good with a hammer, because all she'll be doing is making those hospitals or houses or hovels or whatever, getting sunburnt and getting food poisoning.
Yeah, it turns out writers are cutthroats. So what. There's no way in hell I'm showing up to my high-school reunion if I don't have the most copies sold of my first book. I fucking won the award given by the literary magazine for most promising talent.
Bitch.
It turns out, a girl who apparently graduated the same year I did (yet whose name I can't remember now for the life of me) is leaving today to go to Honduras for a year. She's decided to drop out of college and work on the Next Great American Novel. Since this is third-hand information, I don't know what her great novel is following, but I'm more than willing to bet its either The BellJar or whatever Oprah is shilling at the moment. Next Great American Novel, indeed.
At any rate, she decided to drop out/take a year off (my mom wasn't sure on that detail) because her short story wasn't accepted into the school literary magazine. She was told by the editor that her story wasn't mature enough, and she didn't have enough real-life experiences, and this is what popped into her head. Honduras.
Now, I've got nothing against real-life experiences. They can be fun and make for a good blog post. I love reading about real-life experiences in other people's blogs. However, I'm not entirely convinced that a 'real-life experience' is synonymous with 'no running water' or 'dysentry-ridden hell-hole.' Going to a 3rd-world country (or is Honduras 2nd world?) to volunteer and build huts or whatever is fine and dandy, but Whiteman is more historical liberal guilt than literary merit, and if it were me, I'd be sure to go to a country with vast supplies of writing utensils, paper products, and electricity for if/when the writing bug bites me. That way, I don't have to worry about other bugs biting me and infected me with diseases I can't pronounce in a country that doesn't even have running water.
I'm on dialup, and I'm too lazy to wait and see who actually said it, so I'm going to take full credit for the saying "The unexamined life is not worth living." I want to say it was Socrates, but he's dead and can't complain if I take credit. When it comes to writing that first novel, or anything, really, the inspiration comes from within. That's why there are so many bad first novels about single women struggling to find love and the perfect Prada dress, and first novels written about the former career of its author. Everyone loves a good story about coming of age, about drunk partiers and catty remarks about casual sex. A college student with patience and diligence should be able to write an interesting novel, or at the very least write a short story that doesn't get rejected from a small university in upstate Wisconsin. Bret Easton Ellis could do it, and he didn't have to go to Central America.
I don't have to travel to Honduras and forgo toilet paper and swear off hot sweaty manlove with drunk frat boys for a year to find inspiration for writing. I can do that here. I can write about hot sweaty manlove with drunk frat boys or the joys of toilet paper, though I'm willing to bet the former will be much more popular than the latter. Real-life experiences may be fun and all, but they tend to get in the way of, you know, the actual writing.
What am I saying exactly? I don't know. I'm willing to bet her
Yeah, it turns out writers are cutthroats. So what. There's no way in hell I'm showing up to my high-school reunion if I don't have the most copies sold of my first book. I fucking won the award given by the literary magazine for most promising talent.
Bitch.
May 15, 2006
Put the Book Back on the Shelf
Morrissey would have described them as slate-grey Victorian skies, but ultimately it was more like every single goodbye scene in every single movie you've ever seen: overcast, drizzle, wind, chilly, depressing. And it was overkill; a day of this sort of weather does the trick to set the mood, but after the better part of the week it just gets old. The mood had been sufficiently set. It was the end of semesters, time to say goodbye.
I've never been good with saying goodbye. Or rather, I've always been too good at saying goodbye.
I always hated the last days of high school. It was always designated as a full half day, even though finals had ended the day before. We showed up at 7:29 to homeroom, listened to end-of-the-year announcements, cleaned out our lockers, and then everyone was given their yearbooks and ushered into the cafeteria for booksignings. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that there was usually close to two hours dedicated to finding people, gathering, taking pictures, sob stories and promises to call and hang out during the summer, none of which I really took to. I had my set of friends, and while I probably wouldn't hang out with them during the summer, we'd hang out in the fall and stuff. There were people monitoring the doors, so we couldn't even sneak out early. And I just couldn't bring myself to care.
I'm more of an 'out-of-sight, out-of-mind' sort of guy, at least with friendships. I'd have friends at other high schools, from camps or plays or whatever, but I wouldn't actually call them or hang out with them unless we were together for some event or something. We were more friends of convenience or location or something. That doesn't make our friendships less valid, I don't think. I don't know. Maybe I don't encourage the same sort of attachment as other people, or maybe I just have tons of acquaintences but few friends.
I have tons of AIM names of people I'll probably never talk to again. I'm not good with forging bridges and keeping ties tight. When we hang out, we're friendly, and it's always like old times, but I rarely IM unless I have a specific need. I'm not good at schmoozing, so it's not like that. It's more like, I don't know. I have a lax view on friendships, and have a firm belief that karmically, things always work out.
My neighbors from this past year, my drinking buddies, are both planning on transferring back to the East Coast next semester. There's pretty much no chance I'm going to be in Cornell or Brown's neck of the woods anytime soon, and they aren't exactly pleased with Madison enough to visit ever. Chances are, I'll never see those two again. They came and hugged me, and made this big deal about hanging out one last time. There was too much pressure for a sense of closure or finality. I don't know how to deal with things like that.
With relationships, on the other hand, I think I'm too much with things like that. I'm thinking especially of my first boyfriend, Peter, and our attempt at a long-distance relationship. However, it was my first love, and I was having a rocky first semester at school, so I'm going to pin the clinginess and overextended goodbyes on that crappy school. And every time a romantic relationship has ended, it's been via AIM, and it's easier to be detached and remote, andgetting dumped goodbyes are easier to stomach, even if it is rude and there isn't the same sort of closure.
Hell, I don't even think I told any of my friends from freshman year that I was transferring. Well, they weren't really so much my friends as much as they were my roommate's theatre buddies, who are good at creating relationships and attachments at the drop of a hat, only to drop them in a fit of drama at the slightest crank. Usually when you're transferring, you don't find out for sure until June 15th whether you've been accepted or not, so I left with them assuming that I'd be back next semester. Oddly enough, I've barely thought of any of them since then. I have a few AIM addresses, and a few of them still post in their LiveJournals,but I wouldn't say we've been in contact by any means. I may have shown up in one of their conversations in passing, but I doubt that any of them have thought of me since then, either.
Even at parties, I prefer to sneak out clandestinely rather than wait around for an excuse to leave. I hate those fake reasons like "I'm feeling kind of tired" or "I've got a lot of studying to do tomorrow" or whatever. I'd much rather go out for a cigarette and just never come back, or pretend to hit the bathroom and then go use the one back at my place.
So what does this mean? I don't know. I do know that it's kind of sad when someone on my blogroll throws in the towel I'm saddened more then when my drinking buddies say goodbye. It's weird and lame that I can grow more attached to people I've never met, never talked to on AIM even, then people I get soused with on a regular basis.
I'm such a loser.
I've never been good with saying goodbye. Or rather, I've always been too good at saying goodbye.
I always hated the last days of high school. It was always designated as a full half day, even though finals had ended the day before. We showed up at 7:29 to homeroom, listened to end-of-the-year announcements, cleaned out our lockers, and then everyone was given their yearbooks and ushered into the cafeteria for booksignings. Which wouldn't be so bad, except that there was usually close to two hours dedicated to finding people, gathering, taking pictures, sob stories and promises to call and hang out during the summer, none of which I really took to. I had my set of friends, and while I probably wouldn't hang out with them during the summer, we'd hang out in the fall and stuff. There were people monitoring the doors, so we couldn't even sneak out early. And I just couldn't bring myself to care.
I'm more of an 'out-of-sight, out-of-mind' sort of guy, at least with friendships. I'd have friends at other high schools, from camps or plays or whatever, but I wouldn't actually call them or hang out with them unless we were together for some event or something. We were more friends of convenience or location or something. That doesn't make our friendships less valid, I don't think. I don't know. Maybe I don't encourage the same sort of attachment as other people, or maybe I just have tons of acquaintences but few friends.
I have tons of AIM names of people I'll probably never talk to again. I'm not good with forging bridges and keeping ties tight. When we hang out, we're friendly, and it's always like old times, but I rarely IM unless I have a specific need. I'm not good at schmoozing, so it's not like that. It's more like, I don't know. I have a lax view on friendships, and have a firm belief that karmically, things always work out.
My neighbors from this past year, my drinking buddies, are both planning on transferring back to the East Coast next semester. There's pretty much no chance I'm going to be in Cornell or Brown's neck of the woods anytime soon, and they aren't exactly pleased with Madison enough to visit ever. Chances are, I'll never see those two again. They came and hugged me, and made this big deal about hanging out one last time. There was too much pressure for a sense of closure or finality. I don't know how to deal with things like that.
With relationships, on the other hand, I think I'm too much with things like that. I'm thinking especially of my first boyfriend, Peter, and our attempt at a long-distance relationship. However, it was my first love, and I was having a rocky first semester at school, so I'm going to pin the clinginess and overextended goodbyes on that crappy school. And every time a romantic relationship has ended, it's been via AIM, and it's easier to be detached and remote, and
Hell, I don't even think I told any of my friends from freshman year that I was transferring. Well, they weren't really so much my friends as much as they were my roommate's theatre buddies, who are good at creating relationships and attachments at the drop of a hat, only to drop them in a fit of drama at the slightest crank. Usually when you're transferring, you don't find out for sure until June 15th whether you've been accepted or not, so I left with them assuming that I'd be back next semester. Oddly enough, I've barely thought of any of them since then. I have a few AIM addresses, and a few of them still post in their LiveJournals,but I wouldn't say we've been in contact by any means. I may have shown up in one of their conversations in passing, but I doubt that any of them have thought of me since then, either.
Even at parties, I prefer to sneak out clandestinely rather than wait around for an excuse to leave. I hate those fake reasons like "I'm feeling kind of tired" or "I've got a lot of studying to do tomorrow" or whatever. I'd much rather go out for a cigarette and just never come back, or pretend to hit the bathroom and then go use the one back at my place.
So what does this mean? I don't know. I do know that it's kind of sad when someone on my blogroll throws in the towel I'm saddened more then when my drinking buddies say goodbye. It's weird and lame that I can grow more attached to people I've never met, never talked to on AIM even, then people I get soused with on a regular basis.
I'm such a loser.
May 12, 2006
Le sigh
I failed at getting a summer job. Looks like I'll be stuck at home for yet another embarassing summer.
Usually I just let the bannerheads rotate, but if I had enough time I would change the HTML so that this one would be the only one available, as it best fits my mood:
Le sigh.
Usually I just let the bannerheads rotate, but if I had enough time I would change the HTML so that this one would be the only one available, as it best fits my mood:
Le sigh.
May 10, 2006
I took one look and was like OMG! Major!
I wish I would say that the lack of posts comes from my diligent studying for finals, from spending hours and hours poring over textbooks and memorizing details. Or at the very least posing like a dandy like something out of that Toledano portrait.
It's not. That was last week. Both the studying and the posing. I only have one final test, and that's not until Friday, and it's going to mostly be about lesbians, so I don't care.
The problem comes from the fact that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing this summer yet, and my lease ends on Saturday. None of the jobs I applied for panned out (not even the one where I slept with the trainer). So much for him pulling strings that weren't attached to my heart. Le sigh.
I only heard back from one place, a sandwich shop, and had an interview last week. Unfortunately, when I called yesterday to check up on things, they had lost the notes they took on my first interview, but they asked if I could come in for another interview on Tuesday. Which doesn't really help me, since I'd be homeless for three days before the interview. The other places had already finished their hiring, though I could try again in a few weeks to see if any of the new hires could't stand the heat and therefore got out of the kitchen.
I could of course, get a sublet for the summer and keep my fingers crossed that I get the job, except I don't have enough money in my bank account in town, and would need my parents to fiddle with some funds for me, and they don't want to do that until I actually have a job. Bitches.
I've emailed a few places with desperate pleas, and have heard back from two with postive outlooks, but we'll see. I really hope things work out. Living at home would not be benefical to my sex life, which has blossomed as of late.
Which I would tell you about, except there's been a large growth of people in the area reading this blog, including one person who lives in DPB's dorm and uses the same kind of computer, according to the IP address. And we can't be giving exes fodder to talk about me behind my back.
They can start their own blogs if they want to do that.
May 8, 2006
Here Comes the Brides
I took a quick break from writing my final on the homosociality in Shakespeare's 'problem plays' to buy a Mother's Day gift. I still don't know if I'll be going home for the summer or staying here (my lease ends on the 15th--ack!) so I just bought it online and hope it ships home at an appropriate time.
Her favorite show growing up was Here Comes the Brides, which comes out on DVD within the next few days.
Set in Seattle in the 1870s, "Here Comes the Brides" followed the tale of how the Bolt brothers were in danger of losing their timberland at Bridal Veil Mountain because their men were in near revolt over the lack of women in Seattle.
Her schoolgirl crush was on a young Bobby Sherman. She was a member of his 'offical fanclub' owning the albums and the lunchbox.
Apart from the lunchbox, my mom had all-right taste. For the late 60s, at least.
Her favorite show growing up was Here Comes the Brides, which comes out on DVD within the next few days.
Set in Seattle in the 1870s, "Here Comes the Brides" followed the tale of how the Bolt brothers were in danger of losing their timberland at Bridal Veil Mountain because their men were in near revolt over the lack of women in Seattle.
Her schoolgirl crush was on a young Bobby Sherman. She was a member of his 'offical fanclub' owning the albums and the lunchbox.
Apart from the lunchbox, my mom had all-right taste. For the late 60s, at least.
May 5, 2006
Reader Mail as an excuse for Flesh
To exerpt an email I recieved this morning:
Well, to begin with, I'm going to assume that you haven't been wasted in years, if not decades. We're not talking whether or not it's safe to drive or not, we're talking about having trouble holding that last can of beer and standing up.
Alcohol makes you feel warm, and a lot of guys (e.g. my roommate from the previous post) get rambunctious while under the influence. They're warm, they're sweaty, and their inhibitions are lowered. Plus, they're college boys, so chances are they're horny, and regardless of their body, they're still going to show off for the chance of ass.
At the showers in the gym, they're usually sober, sore and tired. In the shower, there's always the chance of shrinkage, and most times I've got to the gym at the Y or where ever, there's always at least one guy who's taking too long getting dressed and staring creepily. Also, most guys stare at their body in the mirrors waaay too much while exercising, gawking at what they're doing and noticing what they need to work on. Few people, especially college guys, go to the gym and are completely pleased with what they see, there's always something different to improve upon. After analyzing their body and its imperfections for hours, trying to fix every muscle enough to impress the girls, they then have to go and stand around naked with the chance for shrinkage of the muscle that they can do the least to improve.
There's also a sense of power dynamics at a party. Most times when people get naked and do ass-beer and streak and stuff, the majority of the people at the party stay dressed, and egg the one guy one. There's always that guy, who'll get drunk before everyone else, and will do crazy shit and then pass out before midnight. And for most guys, the taboo of nudity is high up there: it's gay, it's emasculating, it's embarassing, it's shameful, and it's funny.
I'm pretty sure there isn't a repressed homosexuality going on. Most guys who are encouraging the drunk guy to strip aren't in it of the chance to see some flesh, but to exhert some sort of dominance. They're in charge of the naked guy, not in a sexual way but in a shaming way, like pulling a wedgie or pantsing a guy.
Plus, it's funny in ways that you can't really explain.
As for dorm living, every dorm I know of have stalls in the showers. Guys will walk down the hall in their towels, and then there are two curtains they cover before removing the towel and turning on the water.
I should probably mention that this sort of drunken revelry doesn't happen as much as you'dlike think. But its still can be hot.
Can you 'splain: your roommate (and his ilk) can get naked at parties, drink ass-beer, and other assorted activities that involve showing off their asses and other parts. Yet, when I've encountered this age group in a gym, locker room, pool or sauna, the contortions to keep any body part from being exposed have, on occasion, almost caused me to laugh out loud....Can that same weirdness possibly apply to dorms and other living situations where you have to be close to other people in similar situations like shared bathrooms and dorm rooms?
Well, to begin with, I'm going to assume that you haven't been wasted in years, if not decades. We're not talking whether or not it's safe to drive or not, we're talking about having trouble holding that last can of beer and standing up.
Alcohol makes you feel warm, and a lot of guys (e.g. my roommate from the previous post) get rambunctious while under the influence. They're warm, they're sweaty, and their inhibitions are lowered. Plus, they're college boys, so chances are they're horny, and regardless of their body, they're still going to show off for the chance of ass.
At the showers in the gym, they're usually sober, sore and tired. In the shower, there's always the chance of shrinkage, and most times I've got to the gym at the Y or where ever, there's always at least one guy who's taking too long getting dressed and staring creepily. Also, most guys stare at their body in the mirrors waaay too much while exercising, gawking at what they're doing and noticing what they need to work on. Few people, especially college guys, go to the gym and are completely pleased with what they see, there's always something different to improve upon. After analyzing their body and its imperfections for hours, trying to fix every muscle enough to impress the girls, they then have to go and stand around naked with the chance for shrinkage of the muscle that they can do the least to improve.
There's also a sense of power dynamics at a party. Most times when people get naked and do ass-beer and streak and stuff, the majority of the people at the party stay dressed, and egg the one guy one. There's always that guy, who'll get drunk before everyone else, and will do crazy shit and then pass out before midnight. And for most guys, the taboo of nudity is high up there: it's gay, it's emasculating, it's embarassing, it's shameful, and it's funny.
I'm pretty sure there isn't a repressed homosexuality going on. Most guys who are encouraging the drunk guy to strip aren't in it of the chance to see some flesh, but to exhert some sort of dominance. They're in charge of the naked guy, not in a sexual way but in a shaming way, like pulling a wedgie or pantsing a guy.
Plus, it's funny in ways that you can't really explain.
As for dorm living, every dorm I know of have stalls in the showers. Guys will walk down the hall in their towels, and then there are two curtains they cover before removing the towel and turning on the water.
I should probably mention that this sort of drunken revelry doesn't happen as much as you'd
May 3, 2006
May 2, 2006
Dance?
(NB-I can't be entirely sure of the details of this post. It's mostly filled with hearsay and drunken remembrances. I wasn't there, but I've pieced the story together from a few sources.)
As mentioned in the previous post, it was the weekend before the last week of classes, so there was a big drunken block party, with tons of frat and house parties the night before to get the liver in shape.
My roommate (not the one I occasionally molested last semester) was at a party at one of the sketchier frats, one that doesn't even have three letters in its name. It's the closest frat though, so it has lax guest rules.
Fast-forward to Sunday night, the first time I see him all weekend. He's got a big cut on his nose, a black eye, and some cuts and scrapes on his legs and arms. I asked him what happened.
"Uh, I don't really remember. I think I fell down the stairs at [frat] or something."
When my roommate drinks, he's gone. There are a few videos of him online at places like ebaumsworld of his crazy drunken antics. He's been known to drink whiskey from the bottle on a dare and has on more than one occasion drank "ass-beer," where he is naked and the beer runs down his back, to a cup underneath his genitals, where it is collected and then drank.
Yeah, I know. Ew. Straight boys may be fetishized, but they're still gross.
At any rate, his falling down the stairs isn't completely out of character for him. It wasn't until lunch the next day when I found out what was closer to the truth.
He was at the frat party, all right, and was drunk, hard to control by all accounts. He was harassing the people at the bar, playing with the liquor, spilling bottles and plastic cups and being a general asshole. Someone was able to convince him to go out on the dance floor, away from the alcohol, where he convulsed, throwing himself around the room in the way that only a drunk person can. Eventually the rhythm took over, and he started to dance, completely wasted. His dancing was of a sexual nature, grinding up against people, inserting himself inbetween couples and imitating rap videos. Most girls weren't into it, but they were able to see that he was really drunk and proved no real threat. However, after a while, he started going up to guys and grinding into their asses, occasionally slapping them and imitating sodomy. (He is, by no definition, gay.) Most people thought it was funny.
However, a few of the guys didn't think it was so funny. They grabbed him, and took him out back, where they proceded to beat him up. My roommate from last year thought he had passed out somewhere, and was looking for him to make sure his shoes were off so he wouldn't wake up with pernament marker on his face. He heard some guys out back by the dumpster screaming "Stupid fag!" and went to investigate. As he turned on the light in the yard, the guys sorta ran off, leaving my roommate on the ground. He was taken to a friend's house and his wounds taken care of. The nextmorning afternoon, he thought he fell down a flight of stairs, and had no recollection of the frat party whatsoever.
Needless to say I won't be going to any frat parties anytime soon.
As mentioned in the previous post, it was the weekend before the last week of classes, so there was a big drunken block party, with tons of frat and house parties the night before to get the liver in shape.
My roommate (not the one I occasionally molested last semester) was at a party at one of the sketchier frats, one that doesn't even have three letters in its name. It's the closest frat though, so it has lax guest rules.
Fast-forward to Sunday night, the first time I see him all weekend. He's got a big cut on his nose, a black eye, and some cuts and scrapes on his legs and arms. I asked him what happened.
"Uh, I don't really remember. I think I fell down the stairs at [frat] or something."
When my roommate drinks, he's gone. There are a few videos of him online at places like ebaumsworld of his crazy drunken antics. He's been known to drink whiskey from the bottle on a dare and has on more than one occasion drank "ass-beer," where he is naked and the beer runs down his back, to a cup underneath his genitals, where it is collected and then drank.
Yeah, I know. Ew. Straight boys may be fetishized, but they're still gross.
At any rate, his falling down the stairs isn't completely out of character for him. It wasn't until lunch the next day when I found out what was closer to the truth.
He was at the frat party, all right, and was drunk, hard to control by all accounts. He was harassing the people at the bar, playing with the liquor, spilling bottles and plastic cups and being a general asshole. Someone was able to convince him to go out on the dance floor, away from the alcohol, where he convulsed, throwing himself around the room in the way that only a drunk person can. Eventually the rhythm took over, and he started to dance, completely wasted. His dancing was of a sexual nature, grinding up against people, inserting himself inbetween couples and imitating rap videos. Most girls weren't into it, but they were able to see that he was really drunk and proved no real threat. However, after a while, he started going up to guys and grinding into their asses, occasionally slapping them and imitating sodomy. (He is, by no definition, gay.) Most people thought it was funny.
However, a few of the guys didn't think it was so funny. They grabbed him, and took him out back, where they proceded to beat him up. My roommate from last year thought he had passed out somewhere, and was looking for him to make sure his shoes were off so he wouldn't wake up with pernament marker on his face. He heard some guys out back by the dumpster screaming "Stupid fag!" and went to investigate. As he turned on the light in the yard, the guys sorta ran off, leaving my roommate on the ground. He was taken to a friend's house and his wounds taken care of. The next
Needless to say I won't be going to any frat parties anytime soon.
May 1, 2006
I pretended that I was in a galaxie 500 video
The weekend before finals every year plays host to a big drunken block party known as Mifflin. Sure, it may have rained, but who cares? It's not quite as big as Halloween, but when you get between 10,000 and 15,000 drunk, rain-soaked students in a three-block radius, well, shit goes down and good times are had. It's been about ten years since the last riot, but there's always the chance and the police are always out in droves. But that's Saturday.
Friday night is when the real shit went down, everyone's practicing for the party and everyone's friends from high school are visiting. The bars were packed, and, doing my duty as a college student, I was exercizing my liver.
We went to a bar, and then another. Then, around midnight, my friends all decided that they should head home early, since there was a marathon the next morning that they had all been guilt-tripped into participating. (I 'forgot' to turn in my application on time, instead planning on hitting the Farmers Market that was being held before the blockparty.)
So I was walking home, alone, slightly tipsy, and when I get about three buildings from my place, I notice a guy with a very nice silhouette standing on the steps, his cell phone up to his head.
I'm a little drunk, so I walk closer to try and get a better look. (Aw, who am I kidding? I would have walked closer to get a better look even if I was sober.) He looked a little familiar, and then we made eye-contact and then I realized it was. It was Guy, yet another guy I had a one-night-stand with, developed a crush on, and then was soundly ignored by. Well, shit.
There are times when you wouldn't mind bumping into an ex, or at least a one-night stand, and drunk alone on a Friday night is definitely not one of them.
He sounded much more "Valley" than I remember him being. He may have dark hair and relatively pale skin, but he's still from Southern California.
"Oh, hey"
"Hey, long time no see."
"Yeah... what's up?"
"Not much, my friends are all lame and doing some marathon thing tomorrow, so I'm going home."
He's never heard of the marathon, which isn't surprising since most people are all about the block party and not about physical exhertion for charity. There was some more chit-chat, blah blah, and then things sounded like they were winding down when he said:
"It was really good to bump into you..."
"Yeah, it was good to see you too. I'll see you later."
I was walking back to my place, about to step up on the stairs, when it hit me. Did he mean "It was really good to bump into you, I've been wanting to bump uglies with you ever since we met and I lost your AIM" or "It was really good to bump into you where the hell are my friends and why won't they give me an excuse to ditch this guy." Why did I cut him off? Damn it!
Boldened by the vodka, I turned around and walked past again.
"So I decided I can't decide if I want to get some pizza or not."
"Well, what's stopping you?"
"I don't want to sit there alone and drunk and eat my pizza. Everyone will think I'm a loser."
"Yeah, but if you want pizza, you're going to want pizza, and you're not going to be happy until you get your pizza."
"Yeah, I think I will get it."
I didn't really want pizza. I just wanted another walkpast, and see if he was just being polite or if it really was good to see me again. I still couldn't tell. He didn't offer to come along, but it also looked like he was waiting for friends. Oh well.
I was walking around the block, to keep up appearances of getting pizza, when I bumped into a few other acquaintences. I went and had a nightcap and their place and sobered up.
I got back to my place around 3, and Guy had an away message up. Playing off of the drunk vibes from before, I left him an away message pretending to be drunk, or at the very least, drunker than I was.
I was definitely not that drunk, but I was playing it up, just so I could have an excuse to talk to him the next day and apologize for leaving a drunken message.
And it worked! He IMed me back the next day, and I apologized and he understood, and I'm supposed to call him later this week to take a break from studying for finals to grab a coffee or something. I need to remember this line in the future.
At least my Friday night went better than my roommates, the story of which comes tomorrow.
Friday night is when the real shit went down, everyone's practicing for the party and everyone's friends from high school are visiting. The bars were packed, and, doing my duty as a college student, I was exercizing my liver.
We went to a bar, and then another. Then, around midnight, my friends all decided that they should head home early, since there was a marathon the next morning that they had all been guilt-tripped into participating. (I 'forgot' to turn in my application on time, instead planning on hitting the Farmers Market that was being held before the blockparty.)
So I was walking home, alone, slightly tipsy, and when I get about three buildings from my place, I notice a guy with a very nice silhouette standing on the steps, his cell phone up to his head.
I'm a little drunk, so I walk closer to try and get a better look. (Aw, who am I kidding? I would have walked closer to get a better look even if I was sober.) He looked a little familiar, and then we made eye-contact and then I realized it was. It was Guy, yet another guy I had a one-night-stand with, developed a crush on, and then was soundly ignored by. Well, shit.
There are times when you wouldn't mind bumping into an ex, or at least a one-night stand, and drunk alone on a Friday night is definitely not one of them.
He sounded much more "Valley" than I remember him being. He may have dark hair and relatively pale skin, but he's still from Southern California.
"Oh, hey"
"Hey, long time no see."
"Yeah... what's up?"
"Not much, my friends are all lame and doing some marathon thing tomorrow, so I'm going home."
He's never heard of the marathon, which isn't surprising since most people are all about the block party and not about physical exhertion for charity. There was some more chit-chat, blah blah, and then things sounded like they were winding down when he said:
"It was really good to bump into you..."
"Yeah, it was good to see you too. I'll see you later."
I was walking back to my place, about to step up on the stairs, when it hit me. Did he mean "It was really good to bump into you, I've been wanting to bump uglies with you ever since we met and I lost your AIM" or "It was really good to bump into you where the hell are my friends and why won't they give me an excuse to ditch this guy." Why did I cut him off? Damn it!
Boldened by the vodka, I turned around and walked past again.
"So I decided I can't decide if I want to get some pizza or not."
"Well, what's stopping you?"
"I don't want to sit there alone and drunk and eat my pizza. Everyone will think I'm a loser."
"Yeah, but if you want pizza, you're going to want pizza, and you're not going to be happy until you get your pizza."
"Yeah, I think I will get it."
I didn't really want pizza. I just wanted another walkpast, and see if he was just being polite or if it really was good to see me again. I still couldn't tell. He didn't offer to come along, but it also looked like he was waiting for friends. Oh well.
I was walking around the block, to keep up appearances of getting pizza, when I bumped into a few other acquaintences. I went and had a nightcap and their place and sobered up.
I got back to my place around 3, and Guy had an away message up. Playing off of the drunk vibes from before, I left him an away message pretending to be drunk, or at the very least, drunker than I was.
Hey I'm sorry I'm a little drunk but it was good to see you.. i didn't know when you said if you mean 'it was good to see you and I mean it' or 'it was good to see you, now go away' and now Im drunk and rambling and i'm sorry
I was definitely not that drunk, but I was playing it up, just so I could have an excuse to talk to him the next day and apologize for leaving a drunken message.
And it worked! He IMed me back the next day, and I apologized and he understood, and I'm supposed to call him later this week to take a break from studying for finals to grab a coffee or something. I need to remember this line in the future.
At least my Friday night went better than my roommates, the story of which comes tomorrow.
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