I'm by myself at the coffeehouse, have a line of eight people, and this stank ass balding hippie freak cuts in front of the line and says "Where's the recycling?"
"I don't know. Try over by the trash can, there's probably a box or something."
He does this evil, impatient half-laugh. "There is no box. Where is your recycle?"
"Sir, I don't know. This is a galleria, I'm sure there's recycling somewhere in here, but I don't know where."
He pushes his glasses up over his nose. "You don't know??? Where do you recycle?"
"At home." I say. The lady behind him clears her throat. "I'm really busy right now. There's a security guard over there who can point you in the direction of the recycle."
"I think you need to talk to your boss and get recycling in here."
"My boss owns a chain of coffeehouses, all of which have recycling in them," this is probably a lie, "but this is a galleria storefront, so only the people who run the galleria can install recycling, so why don't you go talk to the security guard, and he can point you to their offices."
"But if I talk to you, and you talk to your boss, then we can fix the real problem. Recycling is good, don't you think?"
And because Celeste is quitting, and I'm tired, and I'm all itchy from having shaved, I say "Why don't you go back to Burlington Vermont and let me work."
And he is stunned. "How did you know I was from Burlington?"
Because you smell like cheap pot and week old farts. "I used to live up there, and you look kind of familiar, now if you'll excuse me." This is a lie. But, generally, assholes who want to impress their equally stank, dreadlocked girlfriends by antagonizing coffeehop workers about environmental concerns are all from Burlington, Vermont.
Stanky goes away to try and find Canadian Hydro, and I return to the line, where someone is telling me about how soldiers are trained to kill, but no one ever untrains them, and I'm about to ask him why he's telling me this when I realize I'm wearing my "God Bless America" t-shirt, and I don't have time to explain that it's ironic, I just want him to take his machiatto and leave me alone.
It’s 8:00, and I’m in a bar. As usual. What’s unusual is that I’m waiting for someone specific. I know his name, what he looks like, how he smells. I already know that he’s often funny in person, that his voice, while not precisely soothing, won’t send merunning out to the pharmacy for earplugs. I’m prepared.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m a mess. My fingernails are chewed off, my bottom lip bears the indentation of my front teeth, and I’ve run my fingers through my hair so many times, clumps are falling out. God, I can’t go bald on my first real date in...thismillennium.
After the third Southern Comfort and Coke, I check my watch. I’m not wearing a watch. I never wear a watch. “What time is it?” I ask the bartender with laryngitis. She points to the massive clock on the wall behind her. It’s 9:04. Both my date and my friends who offered to act as moral support (and to keep me from going home with him on our first date) are over an hour late. And I’m, if not already drunk, getting there.
The women next to me have spent forty-five minutes talking about Harry Potter, about friends who have also read Harry Potter, and about shunning one of their mutual exes because he hasn’t read Harry Potter. I am about thirty seconds away from throwing my ice at them, and yelling It’s a children’s book. What the hell is wrong with you? when I see my date walk by the window, dressed in khakis and a blazer. I am wearing blue jeans and a Transformers t-shirt.
“Oh my God!” Ben says when I step outside. “I love the Transformers. I’m writing a webcomic about their sordid sexual proclivities. Oh,” he puts his Galouises in his mouth, and shakes my hand, “sorry I’m late. We had this call from a woman claiming to be her daughter, and it was so” I think he’s talking about his work, but my mind keeps looping the phrase Where’s Celeste? over and over. If my support network doesn’t show up, I’m liable to go home with him before we even order drinks. Well, before he even orders drinks.
“Adam!” someone shouts from across the street. It’s thank God Celeste. She’s with her boyfriend, Trick, and...I don’t remember her friend’s name. I think it’s Steve. Most of her friends are named Steve. There’s Steve the Bassist, Steve the Drummer, Anarchist Steve, Socialist Steve, Starbuck’s Steve, Steve Jackson, Irish Steve, and THE Steve. I know this isn’t THE Steve, but apart from that, I don’t have a clue. He might not even be a Steve. “Sorry, I’m late.” She says. “You remember Steve, right?”
“Of course.” I say. “And this is my friend, Ben. Ben, Steve. Steve, Ben. Ben, Trick. Trick, Ben. Celeste, Ben. Ben, Celeste.” Introductions make me dizzy.
Somebody Steve shakes his dreadlocks. “Adam and I were almost roommates.” Oh, that Steve. “But I ended up getting my own place. It’s much easier.”
“Well that’s not very socialist of you.” I say. Celeste, Trick, and Steve all laugh.
“Steve is a socialist.” Celeste explains. Ben laughs. Politely.
When we are all back inside, Ben takes off his blazer, revealing a wife beater. Now we look like a unit. Socialist Steve in his black jeans and Misfits hoodie, Celeste in her pink bunny shirt and skirt made of ties, Trick in jeans and a navy blue t-shirt, me, and Ben. If the waitress hadn’t seen me sitting at the bar for an hour and a half, we could have been a group of scenesters coming from an all ages emo show. Something free. I can tell, as she takes our drink order, that she’s calculating how much we’re likely to tip her.
Socialist Steve orders an obscure lager that I’ve never heard of. Celeste gets a hard cider. Trick gets a Guinness. Ben asks about a good ale. I forgo the Southern Comfort and Cokes for a Midori Sour. When the waitress puts it down in front of me, a couple of minutes later, Ben says “That’s the gayest drink I’ve ever seen.”
Celeste asks “Where’s the umbrella?”
And then Ben is bullet point talking at us. Celeste throwing in the occasional story which may or may not have anything to do with whatever it is Ben is talking about. Talk talk talk talk talk, meandering story, talk talk talk talk talk, meandering story, talk talk talk talk talk, Socialist Steve makes a dry remark about his beer, meandering story, talk talk “Mind if I try some?” Ben asks, reaching for my drink.
“Not at all. Here.”
He takes a large sip from my straw, swishes it like wine, and swallows. “Too fruity.”
In those two words, he’s summed up the reason why I’ve fallen out of crush with every fag I’ve known since I started dating.
When the food has been digested, and the check has been paid, the five of us head outside. Celeste gives me the Is It Okay For Us To Leave You Two Alone Eyebrow. I reply with the It Is Nod.
And we’re alone.
“I don’t think Steve paid enough to cover tip.” Ben says.
“I don’t think he paid enough to cover his beer.” I say. “I put in five extra bucks.”
“Me, too.” He says.
There’s about ten seconds of comfortable silence, and then Ben’s tongue turns Gatling gun again. “You know the French are so mad about the way George Bush is ruining this country, that they’re refusing to export Galouises here, which means I’m either going to have to quit smoking or find another brand. It sucks because I just started smoking Galouises a few months ago because my mom used to smoke them in high school and they’re incredibly smooth, and I just really like them. I don’t think I can go back to Marlboro Lites. It seems like every time I like something, it instantly disappears, like there’s some vast fucken conspiracy against me. Well, bring it on Universe, I can take it, I can find another brand of cigarettes that I’ll like even better. And"
And I should kiss him. That might just be the one thing that stops his nervous babbling. But I don’t. And I don’t care to analyze why.
“and I totally had fun and everything, and it was really nice to be on a date with someone who wasn’t just trying to get into my pants on the first date or anything. Like my last exboyfriend, who’s totally HIV positive. I’m not, by the way, I’ve been tested recently, and we haven’t had sex in over a year. But he is, and I think I want to ask him to marry me, because then I can just marry him and do the whole ‘til death do us part thing, and know that it won’t be that far away. Though, honestly, I’ll probably marry the first guy who asks me to.”
And before I can stop myself, the words “Will you…” leap off my tongue, and cartwheel over the tightrope of desperation that serves as the only common thread between us. I can’t marry Ben, I don’t even know his last name. “Will you―really?”
“You didn’t.” Celeste says, when I relay the story to her later. “That’s soooooo lame.”
“What about Dmitri?” she asks, referring to my most recent unavailable fuck interest.
“What about him? I’m not going to wait for some confused gay guy in Chicago who has had the same boyfriend since he was fourteen. That’s slow suicide.”
“But he’s a med student.” Celeste says. “Wouldn’t your mom be thrilled if you were marrying a nice, rich doctor?”
“Sure.” I say. “If I were a woman.” When my mother calls to ask how I’m doing, she always asks Do you have a new boyfriend or, her voice swells with hope, girlfriend? “I think she’d be content with me marrying a hair dresser, as long as the hair dresser has a vagina.”
She rolls her eyes. “So, the proposal thing. You only proposed…”
“I didn’t propose. I very nearly proposed.”
“Wev, dude. You only very nearly proposed because you were drunk, right?”
“How many drinks did you have?”
I tap the tips of my fingers. “I lost count at four.” The problem with mixed drinks is the problem with boys: the fruitier they are, the easier they go down, and eventually you lose track of how many you swallow. Not that either Ben or I did any going down or swallowing on the night I nearly almost proposed.
“Will I really what?” Ben asks.
“Marry the first guy who proposes.”
And I wait for him to ask if that’s a proposal, or if I’m kidding, or for him to say anything to end this awkward, depressing silence. “I don’t know.” He says, taking the last drag off his last cigarette. “Depends on the guy, I guess.”
“Well, I’d hope so.” And I throw in a fake laugh, that I hope sounds sincere.
“I should go.” He says. “I don't want to miss the last train.”
And I almost detain him just a long enough so we end up going back to my place to share either a great fuck, a huge mistake, or both. But I don’t.
Proposing Marriage To Strangers 101
Like most Introductory Courses, we begin with a thesis statement. By the end of this course, I expect you will be able to walk up to someone you barely know and tell them you love them. You will fall in love with a laugh, the way he makes eye contact with a squirrel and doesn’t even break it when he rests his hands on the small of your back, the way she makes the word “fuck” have three syllables. You will learn to say “I love you” before you know your betrothed’s name. You will learn to actually be in love before, and despite, all those wonderful imperfections that lead to annoyance, arguments, divorce, and, ultimately love. You will realize that while “no” means “no”, “you’re crazy” means “not yet, but soon”.
Week One, Forgetting the Complications of Previous Love Experience: During this class we will discuss why none of your past relationships were actually love. We will tear pages out of your photo albums, and smash all your When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, The English Patient, and all those other nonsensical “love” DVDs.
Week Two, Determining Your Type, Then Overcoming It: We will discuss your fetishes, and why they’re wrong. You will learn to forget about hair styles and skin types and how much money people make, and learn to only follow the exquisite twist of stomach and the tingle of hair.
Week Three, Dropping Pick Up Lines in Favor of Honesty: This is not a week to fuck with the professor. Listen, learn. Pick up lines only work on prissies and prostitutes.
Week Four, Field Trip to End All Field Trips: Bring a lunch or money to buy a lunch. You’ll all be blindfolded and dropped off at various parts of the city. The weather will be ideal for love. It may be snowing, or sunny, or raining cats and locusts. Whatever it will be will be perfect. You won’t know where you are. You will be lost and dizzy. This is what love feels like. While you’re pondering this (s)he will catch your ears, your eyes, your nose, your arms. You won’t need a diploma. The only degrees you’ll get are from the fever. Class difuckensmissed.
I have been between boyfriends now for more years than I can count on one hand. I wish this was a reference to the longest threesome in the world, but it's not. I haven't dated anyone this millennium. I've only been seriously interested in about four people. I've been amusedly interested in about a quarter million people.
There are certain types of people I could find attractive than I would never date: married or already dating men, serial killers, Clay Aiken fans, roommates, ex-gays, slam poets. In the seven years I've been actively slamming, I've been attracted to several poets, but never even considered dating one. Fucking one, maybe, but even that has repercussions. Do I really want a poet with an asterisk in their name reading poems about the size of my cock? Do I really want to spend a year making every audience member uncomfortable as I graphically detail the way Asterisk squeals when I slide my---No. Nobody wants to hear that (well, ok, maybe you sickos, but not a slam audience). So, I don't fuck or date poets. Never have. Sure, I slept with Steggy at least a dozen times, but we were both fully clothed and trapped in either hotel rooms, or other poets' guest bedrooms.
I don't fuck roommates because I've had enough drama with roommates as it is. And who wants to wake up with an eviction notice and a sword hovering over your midsection, your hot Gay roommate saying "It's either you or your cock. One of you needs to leave this house as soon as possible and never come back."? Maybe Steggy, but he'd just be role playing.
I don't fuck Clay Aiken fans because they have terrible taste in "music" and garish taste in performance art.
Serial killers just don't return my calls.
Married or dating men? No thanks. I prefer to alienate people with my personality, not adultery.
Dmitri and his boyfriend are coming into town in a few days to check out colleges. No, this is not the beginning of a "what should I do, he's dating, and I'm interested" blah blah blah post. He's dating someone, I'm over it. I'm just really grateful he's coming to town because I'm in a quandary.
I'm attracted to a slam poet. Not just any slam poet, a TERRIBLY BAD slam poet. And, it's worse. Not only is his writing mundane, he's incredibly annoying. He talks constantly about things he, apparently, knows nothing about. He refers to Livejournal as "leej". He treats being a part of an online community as real life, telling me about comments he made to some woman who tried to get into some snobby ratings community he's a part of. He's slept with and been dumped by Asterisk, and both have them have spent hours explaining why things didn't work out: because terribly bad slam poet is annoying. Some "fat, annoying kid" hit on him at a show, and HE GAVE HIM HIS NUMBER. He then played me the depressingly passive-aggressive voicemails that the "fat, annoying kid" left on his cellphone. All this, and I've only hung out with him once! Clearly, I should start avoiding him, fling rubber bands and Corona Light (which is the most redundantly named beer ever, and he drinks it) bottles at him when he takes the stage. I mean, the obvious solution is to stay as far away from his as possible. So I invited him to dinner tonight.
Will someone please kill me? At the very least, point at me in the streets and say "Bad homo, stop thinking with your dick!"?
Dmitri? Cheerio? Celeste? (On second thought, Celeste and Sir Trick are joining me on my not-date tonight, so I'd probably benefit from her NOT shouting "Bad homo, stop thinking with your dick" during the meal. Though it would amuse my favorite bartender.)
I desperately need someone's help. I just have this horrendous fear that he will be so annoying tonight that I'll have no choice but to take him home with me.
It's 3:15. Soon the buses will be leaving. But now the parking lot is swarming with campers. Ross is doing the robot in the middle of it. Grant is crying near the bushes. Allyson is bouncing a soccer ball on her head. Eric is digging in the sand, as usual. I don't know who the twins are, but they won't stop poking me. Where the fuck are all the counselors? I shouldn't be left by myself with hundreds of children moving around a parking lot filled with soon to be moving buses. Where is AJ? Christine? Diama? Fuck, I'd even settle for Bernard, just SOMEONE. Then, the rabbit bus starts backing up. A child screams. I start to run over, but now the goat is backing up, then the skunk bus, then the turtle, then the zebra bus, and the unicorn. I don't know which direction to run in. All the children are screaming. Stop the fucken buses can't you see the children are my curtains being pushed back by the fan. The beeping buses, then, must be my alarm clock. I pull it out of the wall. No, not my alarm clock. What, then?
"What the fuck?" Sole Remaining Gay Roommate Dale asks.
"Is that the fire alarm?"
"What do you think?"
I can never resist answering a question with a question. "Is the house on fire?"
"Do you smell smoke?" Dale and I may be more similar than I'm comfortable admitting.
A brief check of our bedrooms and our bathroom reveals firelessnes. Ditto the kitchen, the living room, and the two bathrooms. "Do you mind checking Bikey's room, while I investigate the basement?" And before he can protest, I bound down the stairs, where there is not so much as a spark.
From upstairs, I hear "Oh. My. God." So the fire is in Bikely's room.
I race back up the stairs. "Where is the fire extinguisher? Have you called 911?"
Dale is standing on the threshold of her room. "Have you ever seen such a sty?"
"So, it's not on fire?"
"Would I be just standing here if it was?"
"Do you think the fire is in the other apartment?" A couple of weeks ago, Dale left some pork roasting in the oven while he went canoeing in the Amazon or something, and the smoke detectors went off. Bikey told me we had to be careful because our smoke alarms were connected to the ones downstairs, and we wouldn't want to wake up our downstairs neighbors late at night. "Right," I said, "Let them burn."
"Are our smoke detectors connected to theirs?" Dale asks.
"How long have you lived here?"
We walk down to their front door. "Should I knock?"
I roll my eyes at him. "Do you think they're home?"
He pounds on the door. "Nope." He says. "Nobody's home."
"Ha!" I say. "That was a statement, I win."
"Dude, our house is no fire, and you're playing grammar games?"
I blush. "Weren't you?"
"Do I need to answer that?"
I cup my hands around my eyes and look in the window. "Do you see any smoke in there?"
I didn't. But there was a fire somewhere in the house, and it probably wasn't getting any smaller. "Isn't there a door in the basement that goes into their apartment?"
Dale cocked his head. "Do you think it's unlocked?"
It wasn't. We took turns trying to batter it down with Law & Order style shoulder lunges. When that failed, I attempted a few kung fu style kicks, with much the same results. Though, I did almost fall down the stairs a couple of times. "Wasn't one of their windows open?"
"Are you giving up on the door?"
I went outside, and cut the bottom of the screen with my key. I then pried the screen off.
"Isn't this breaking and entering?"
I rolled my eyes again. "And trying to break their door wasn't?"
I lifted myself up, and was halfway into the window when Dale asked "What if the neighbors see us?"
I froze. "Do you hear anything?"
"Their alarms aren't going off. Just ours. The fire is in our apartment."
"Ha!" Damn. "Do you think I should call the fire department?"
"Do you have a better idea?" I asked.
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
We took a break from our game so he could call the fire department, and I could replace the screen, hoping they wouldn't notice the gaping hole at the bottom. I joined him on the porch when I was finished. "Is this not the worst way to start a day ever?"
"Could be worse." I said, conceding our contest to make a point. "At least you don't own that car." I said, pointing to a car with a busted window, and a pile of broken glass under it.
"Ha!" He said "Wasn't that a statem--wait, I do own that car."
After he ascertained that nothing but his radio's faceplate, and a few CDs had been stolen, he called the police to make a report. "Didn't you just call the fire department?" The woman on the other end of the phone asked. When he conceded yes, she asked for his registration number.
"It's in the house." He said.
"The one on fire?" She asked.
When she was done laughing at him, he hung up and lit a cigarette.
"Do you really think you should be smoking when the fire department gets here?"
He put out the cigarette on the railing, and shot me an evil look. "Do I care?"
Whoever started the stereotype that firemen were hot, certainly didn't live in any neighborhood I've lived in. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather have a troop of non-attractive, competent firemen than Zoolanders with large hoses. These firemen were Rescue Me firemen, which makes sense, the show takes place in Boston, I live in Boston. Still, having Dennis Leary rush into our house, then come back out and say "Your smoke detector has low batteries, everything is fine." is a very anticlimactic result to a morning fire. And, what the fuck, what kind of smoke detector is designed to go off loudly and set off the other alarms in the house when it's low on batteries? Wouldn't a simple occasional beep be sufficient? Maybe the lights could go out or something?
With tragedy averted, Dale duct taped his broken car window and drove to work. I got dressed and headed to the coffeehouse to hang out with Celeste. Poor Celeste was still stuck in New York, where she had apparently been punched in the face while waiting for the Chinatown bus, because...well because the Chinatown bus sucks, never shows up when it's scheduled, and, according to yesterday's newspaper, has a tendency to go up in flames every other month or so. Suddenly, fifteen bucks to get from Boston to NYC isn't looking so hot good. I'd rather spend the extra ten bucks to go Greyhound, and live through the experience unscathed.
Because Celeste was not there, I volunteered to work her shift, even though I haven't so much as looked at a cup of coffee in two months. Apart from a few of the regulars asking me where I'd been, the shift was largely uneventful, until the last hour.
I was pouring out the coffee of the day (Mango Duck Chutney) when I noticed someone at the counter.
"of-course ?want this? ?want that?"
"that ?busy day?"
"not yes-not no ?coffee?"
And I suddenly realized I was signing to a stranger. A stranger had walked up to my counter and, without any introduction, begun speaking with me in pidgin sign language.
"no coffee thanks"
"?how you know I sign?" I asked.
"you fingerspell and" (mimes pouring) "coffee same time"
Right, I do have a tendency to fingerspell when I'm daydreaming. I wasn't aware you could notice that across a crowded room, though.
"William!" Did someone step on a bird with strep throat? No, it's just some obnoxious woman yelling at.... Who is she yelling at? "WILL-YUM" She's coming right at me. Ohhhhh.
"?name w-i-l-l-i-a-m?" I asked.
His eyes conveyed the question "Are you psychic?" while his fingers remained motionless.
"someone yell at you"
William turned around. "?what?" Then he signed something I couldn't see.
"Don't sign to me." She said. "I don't have a clue what you're saying."
"I thought we were supposed to sign to each other as much as possible so we could get fluent faster." His voice is...flawless. Deep, rich, and...not at all the voice of someone who can't hear their own voice.
"I don't have time for this." She says. "Do you have my muffin?"
"Yes." He says, holding up the bag.
"Is it hot?"
"No." I say.
She bristles that I have addressed her. She clearly wasn't asking for my input. "Well, heat it up then."
"I can't." I say. "No microwave or oven."
"Why not?" She asks.
William turns around and starts watching my lips. He definitely can't hear. I'm guessing, based on their conversation and his incredibly precise voice, that he only recently lost his hearing. And, that this cunt is his mother. "We're a coffeehouse, not a restaurant, per se. We just sell muffins, biscotti, and cookies."
"So buy a microwave to heat up muffins for people."
Twat. "We don't have room for a microwave. Plus, in the year I've worked here" this is a complete lie, I worked there for all of three or four months "you're the first person who ever asked to have their muffin heated."
"Well now I don't want it. So you just lost a customer. Maybe you should rethink your position on microwaves. Let's go William."
Yes, bitch. The $1.50 we just lost because you don't want a muffin will make me rush over to Best Buy RIGHT NOW to buy a microwave. Clearly, you win.
William looks like he just sat in water. "sorry" he says to me "mom" Then he turns away, pauses, turns back and says "see-ya"
"later" I reply.
"William!" Cunty McFucker shouts. "Let's go."
And because I have lost my tact when it comes to this woman, I look straight at her and say "He can't hear you, lady, he's deaf."
William's eyes telescope large.
"sorry" I sign.
"same" And his laugh sends me in orbit around the coffeehouse. I may never touch the ground again.
Yet another school is several months delinquent in paying me for a gig. Ugh. Zuzu is still dealing with the divorce from hell. Ugh. Two out of my three new roommates are fighting so fiercely, they can't be in the same room with each other. Ugh. I had to interview for a room I'm already living in. That's not so much of an ugh as a huh.
This month has been ughly. The first weekend I lived in the new house, I lived here alone, terrified that all of the other roommates had been killed in some sort of Satanic ritual, and that their ghosts would soon be back to begin haunting me. A few days later, I came home drunk after a night of poetry and Bikey and her boyfriend were in the kitchen. They both appeared to be alive.
"Yea, we were in VT for the weekend. I rode my bike up there to play recorder in an early music festival."
She rode her bike from Boston to Vermont?
I was about to ask her more intriguing questions when The Sole Remaining Gay Roommate, Dale, and The Other Girl, Chippy, entered the room. Upon their arrival, Bikey and her boyfriend vacated the room. "I fucken hate her." Dale said. "Dirty ass bike dyke with her ugly ass hobbit boyfriend."
"It's a good thing you're not judgmental." Chippy said to Dale.
"I'm not judgmental. I just don't like people who are ugly. Or fat."
I went upstairs to my room, trying to guage if a jump from my window would kill me. I decided it would only bruise my shins, and there's little as embarrassing as a botched suicide attempt during your first week in a new apartment.
By the end of the first week, Chippy had moved out, replaced by her friend, Allison, who was subletting. The two of us enjoyed watching Dale and Bikey not interact with each other. One of us would talk with one of them, the other would talk to the other, and we'd try and see how close we could get them before Bikey (clearly not the alpha in the situation) scurried into her room. We couldn't even get them on the same floor.
On the rare occasions that I've left the house, I've either been hanging with Celeste, or dropping off mail at the Post Office. Apparently there is a LARGE PACKAGE waiting for me in Quincy, where I haven't lived in over four years. But if there's a good reason to go to Quincy, it's to get my hands on a large package.
I was discussing the mail situation with Chippy, who was moving some of her stuff out, when I mentioned how the last night I went to pick up stuff at Landlord's, I found that he had unpacked MY belongings from MY suitcase, and hidden it, claiming MY suitcase, which had MY name written all over it, wasn't mine. This inspired me to make several other Landlord rants prompting Chippy, who I'd only spoken to once before, to say "These stories sound familiar. I think Feral (the roommate I had replaced) told them to me. He got them from some guy's Livejournal. Oh my God, you're that guy!"
"Really?" Dale asked.
I am that guy. So I told them how I met Feral via Livejournal, and how we'd had dinner a couple of times, how I'd met his boyfriend, yadda yadda.
"So what's your journal about?" Dale asked.
"Embarrassing stories mostly. It started off as anonymous gay confessions, but it's sort of expanded into embarrassing everythings."
"Wow. There's this guy who lives down the street that Feral knows who writes a journal filled with awkward stories. You should meet him."
Chippy and I stared at him for a full minute and a half of awkward silence.
"I am that guy who lived down the street."
I really hope he was drunk.
Personally, I've been finding myself getting drunker than usual lately. After several months of not really drinking so much, many people and bartenders are determined to dehydrate me via alcohol. Jim Beam's been winking at me, and Captain Morgan has officially appointed me as first mate. I was relieved to discover that Midori is actually a man. No reverse Crying Game incidents for me.
At some point this week, I really have to stop putting off going back to my old jobs. There's only so much ramen noodles my digestive system can take. Ugh.