dating with the enemy

They say in high school, the easiest way to infiltrate a clique, is to talk about anything from the three universal topics: TV, music, and clothes. Of course, it also helps to unite against a common enemy...a good choice would be the sexually challenged P.E. teacher. The clique I had tried to infiltrate? Yearbook. I was a senior, with no experience, and to the class I was nothing more but a mere mortal stranger, trying to learn all the secrets of putting together a well-put, end of the year, memory book. And though it may sound like war, it's worse. War is just hell. This was high school.

And like every high school, we had that one girl that all the kids would make fun of. You know the kind...bad at sports, a little overweight, friends with the lunch ladies...and Zahqwandra Thomas was just that person. She wore bifocals, her teeth were a little crooked, and she smelled like onion and feet. And though she was loud and obnoxious, I never said anything mean at all to her. Until one day, when she tried to get a petition going to have me kicked off the yearbook staff as Copy Editor. Apparently, she did not appreciate the helpful criticism I offered. But really, how can you include "When da sun iz out, da best thing to do is pop yo collar and chill wid yo homies by da poo," in a yearbook without making it sound ghetto?

From then on, I tortured Zahqwandra mercilessly behind her back, as any and all students would have done. Of course, my torture tactics were the best. I'd spray her rotting and decaying backpack with my Axe Essence deodorant spray and the class would go wild. I mean, I killed. I mean, I totally killed. And then, a year later, I found out just how much of a total bitch I was.

The Arizona Daily Star had its annual "Five Star Senior Achievers Across Tucson" article and Zahqwandra was one of the chosen few. Why? During her sophomore year in high school, Zahqwandra's mom had decided to live in Nigeria with her new husband, and not wanting to live a whole ocean away, Zahqwandra decided to stay. At first, she stayed with her sister, but after a month of living on the couch, Zahqwandra knew she needed to take matter in her own hands. For the next three years of her high school career, Zahqwandra ate, studied, slept, and lived out of her car, working two full-time jobs, while maintaining a 3.5 GPA. As soon as the article came out, everyone showed it to me. I felt so horrible, but then a little ok, when I realized I never actually made fun of her in front of her face...just behind her back. Which was worse, but thankfully she never heard any of it...or did she?

Earlier this morning, I took my younger brother Collin to his job interview at Target. He was psyched about the idea of working there, while I was psyched about the family discount I could, and would, use. But then, a dark cloud settled over the store, for behind the glass sliding doors was Zahqwandra. Last I heard, she had moved to Virginia Beach to be in the army, so it was a surprise to see her standing inside the store as the hiring manager.

After the group interview, and a quick "Please dont fire him, before you've hired him" prayer, Zahqwandra and I talked and caught up.

ME: So...did my brother get the job?
ZAHQWANDRA: David! I cant tell you that...that's confidential information.
ME: Yeah, I know, but...you know...
ZAHQWANDRA: I'm sorry, David, I cant tell you. If you're brother is hired we'll let him know. It wouldnt be fair to the other candidates, would it?
ME: Yeah, but the other candidates arent from Tucson High. They dont got that Badger pride, like we do.
ZAHQWANDRA: David...I cant...I really cant...I'm sorry.
ME: Ok, well...cant say I didnt try.
ZAHQWANDRA: Ok...
ME: Hey...now that you're back in town and whatever, do you wanna grab a bite to eat and hang out? Catch up on old times?
ZAHQWANDRA: Ok! Sure!
ME: Great...
ZAHQWANDRA: It's a date! Ha-ha-ha! We rhymed!

True, it was a cheap ploy into making Zahqwandra thinking we were friends, but is going on a date with someone, you picked on in high school, to help further the career of your brother all that bad? I mean, I know sometimes in life, you have to make sacrifices in order to advance in your career, but should I be the one making the sacrifices? I know I should be the one apologizing, but sacrificing...? I always felt bad that I never told Zahqwandra I'm sorry but was this really my chance in disguise?

the awful friend

It's been said, that there are certain topics, that should be refrianed from conversation. One such topic is, money. Which is ironic because money is one of the primary engines that fuels civil society. In fact, money is one of the most important things in our lives, although it's terribly materalistic to admit that. And in my experience, I've seen more friendships break up over money than over anything else. And I wonder...can a friendship ruined by money, still be salvaged?

Eight months ago, my friend, Susan-Catherine, a major executive rep for an investment company, gave me two free tickets to go see Gwen Stefani and The Black Eyed Peas. The company for which she worked for, was always giving her free concert tickets to entertain clients, but since the tickets she was given were aimed towards a younger audience, she would give the tickets away to students or sell the tickets on Ebay and profit from the auctions.

After the free concert, Susan-Catherine encouraged me to keep in contact, which I did, but as the months passed, my emails, grew less, and then one day, they stopped altogether. Until three weeks ago, when I saw Susan-Catherine online and asked her if she had any Madonna tickets. I thought it would be the perfect birthday gift for my friend Madelaine and so did Susan-Catherine, which is why she sold me a pair of two tickets, Section 102, Row D, for a grand total of $80.

But then something tragic happened. Susan-Catherine gave my precious tickets away! She claimed that since I paid her 12 hours later than I said I would, she thought I didnt want the tickets and so, she gave them to someone else. I was plauged with confusion. Why would my friend Susan-Catherine do that to me? Had she no soul? Was it because I was an awful friend? I mean, yeah, I know I hadnt really kept in contact with her, and I'll admit the Madonna ticket request totally came out of left field, but was that enough of a reason to warrant a cancellation on the birthday surprise for my friend?

Later that week, I had to confront the belated birthday girl, Madelaine, and tell her that the birthday gift I had planned would be forever belated. I felt awful. Madelaine had already told everyone she and I were going to see Madge, live and up-close and to crush a dream like that was just...well...awful. But why was I feeling awful? I wasnt the awful friend...or was I? In the course of one week, I had broken a payment promise, and a gift guarentee. And it was all because Susan-Catherine wanted her money at a certain time.

It made me upset to think that Susan-Catherine had made our friendly transaction into a business merger, but when you work for a large investment company, I guess the value of money increases. Just like the price of Madonna tickets on Ebay. As the days leading up to her concert decreased, the price of tickets increased. And so, hoping to keep one of the promises I made, I placed a bid and scored a pair of floor tickets, Section AAA, Row 51. The seller was touched by my story and sold me the pair of tickets for a grand total of $150. The tickets came in yesterday, via FedEx, along with an email from Susan-Catherine.

David...I know you might be a tad bit upset that I have sold the tickets to another individual, and I apologize for the confusion. I did not think you were interested when I didn't hear from you for so long. I hope this does not put a damper on our friendship. I will be in Tucson next week, and maybe then we can meet up for lunch? Let me know...Susan-Catherine

death by karma

In a town like Tucson, where you're most likely to see your old friend from the third grade pumping gas at the same gas station as you, you start to realize just how small this town really is. And when it's that small, well, it's not that hard to be found. So it's no surprise, karma has found me.

Friday afternoon, I was down in the basement of Alice's Downtown Flower Shop with Ashley, when I asked her if she was going to Alice's place later on that day.

ME: Hey, so are you going to Alice's?
ASHLEY: No...I dont think so, why?
ME: Oh, well, dont you wanna help with your cake?
ASHLEY: My cake?
ME: Yeah. Adrianna said something about making you a four-tier Hello Kitty cake.
ASHLEY: No. Adrianna told me Alice was making a Hello Kitty cake for her niece.
ME: No, she told me the cake was for you. I thought it was for your birthday or something.
ASHLEY: Maybe you heard her wrong.
ME: Or maybe I just ruined your surprise. Sorry.

I later found out, that's exactly what I did. That night, when I got to Alice's house, the first thing Alice told me was that the cake was a surprise for Ashley. Feeling horribley bad for ruining a surprise, I began to play bartender and drank my sorrows away. Four bloody mary's and three glasses of mango rum later, I was buzzing and what better way to spend my state of buzz, than at the movies?

So there I was, with my good friend Madelaine, getting ready to see The Da Vinci Code, a little drunk, a little hungry, and a little tired. Ok, so it was a lotta tired and I totally missed the last hour of the movie, but who knew karma was sitting just a few rows behind us?

The next day, my Aunt Sylvia invited me to chaperone a 5th grade transition/graduation/birthday party for my little cousin Katrina. I, of course, wasnt in the mood to babysit a bunch of 11-year-olds, but since there was the promise of a good cake, I went. And it's a good thing too. The Barbie and eight-pointed star piñata's were filled with the good kind of candy, like Reese's and Kit Kat's, and not that cheap hard candy you can get for almost nothing across the border. As I stood around, watching the kids line up to hit the piñata's, I began to wonder which kids I could take out, when all of a sudden a huge mess of pink tissue paper came flying towards me. Barbie and her Butterfinger-filled body knocked me down.

It was totally humiliating, and when I remembered how cruel and ruthless 5th graders can be, well, it just made the whole thing worse. So, to compensate for being knocked in the head (and for getting the kids all riled up), my other cousin, Vanessa, invited me to a party she was throwing for her graduating class.

Another night with another drink in my hand, I was retelling my weekend tales of the birthday surprise gone sour, my Da Vinci doze-off, and my brawl with Barbie, when Vanessa's friend, Annie, began to tell me how wrong it was to fall asleep during such a controversial movie.

ANNIE: You fell asleep during The Da Vinci Code?!
ME: Yeah. Well, it was midnight and I only had like four hours of sleep the night before.
ANNIE: So?! That doesnt matter! That was just totally disrespectful!
ME: Uh, I already read the book, so...it's not like I was missing much.
ANNIE: Uh, hello?! Did you know there are people in the Middle East dying because they cant see that movie?!
ME: No they're not!
ANNIE: Yeah, they are!
ME: Well, they were dying before the movie came out, and my guess is they'll probably die after the movie comes out.
ANNIE: Oh, you just wait. You think you're so cool now, but you wait! Karma will get you!

Sunday morning, with Annie's words still fresh in my mind, I stumbled into church, with my not so fresh vodka breath. Annie was totally drunk and deluded, but did she have a point? Was karma after me? I mean, sure, karma is an important concept in several Eastern religions, but I was of Western religion, so it couldn’t have that much of an effect on me…could it? But then what about getting hit in the head by the Barbie piñata? Was that really karma's way of getting back at me for ruining Ashley's birthday surprise?

It was too early in the morning to have such a philosophical thought in my head, and so I concentrated on finding an empty pew. My church is set up like a concert stadium, minus the bleachers, with the pulpit and stage at the bottom, and all the pews at a slant, leading towards it, so you can see what a challenge it is to walk down the isle. My family and I settled on a pew near the sound system, when all of a sudden, I tripped on one of the wires and pushed my brother Collin down the isle. Collin rolled down, nearly missing the corner of a pew. He could have lost an eye, but instead he lost his temper and started yelling at me in the church.

It was definately karma. And it wasn't the funny kind like they show in My Name Is Earl. It was the scary kind. But can karma really hurt you? And if so, how can you get rid of it?

all growed up

Last Friday, my director friend, Jeff called me. Jeff was a student film director whose dream was to make the greatest American film of all time. It was also his dream to put me in another one of his films. Originally, he had given me a small part in a student film he was supposed to direct last February, but when he got arrested for a DUI, the whole thing fell through.

Jeff had won some sort of scholarship through some film school in California and was given $5000 to make a movie. And since he remembered my phone number (and my face), he called and asked if I was interested in making another movie. I, of course, had my misgivings because if my "movie career" didnt pan out the first time, really, what was different this time around?

But Jeff convinced me to meet with him and reluctantly, I agreed. I still felt somewhat responsible for being the person that drugged Jeff (and for keeping the green jacket from the first film) so Saturday night, I found myself having dinner at the historic Hotel Congress in historic downtown Tucson with Jeff and his group of drama major friends.

They were a...what’s the word...unique group of people who wore black without being too morbid and spoke big words like "beneficial" and "intellectual" without sounding too pretentious. They were the epitome of what I considered the word "adult" to mean. They were sophisticated and classy and spoke slowly and clearly, while I was a raging mess of a person who spoke too fast with Marsala cream sauce dripping from my mouth. They used French phrases sporadically in their conversations, while I just sat in silence and smiled. The only French I ever mastered was very basic French, with phrases such as "bonjour" and "voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir."

Sitting across from me, was a girl named Monique. The only French she seemed to master was the kiss and the phrase, "ménage à trois." Monique had studied drama for three years, hoping to one day make it to the Broadway stage, but so far she had only made it backstage. She wasn’t much to look at, but she was horny as hell, and it seemed that was all Jeff needed to know to cast her in his movie.

After dinner we went back to Jeff’s apartment for cocktails and a viewing of his favorite movie, Ed Wood. Someone had brought out the kama sutra body chocolate paint and soon, arms, legs, and faces were made into delectable deserts. I coudnt believe this was the same group of mature adults that I just had dinner with. I started to wonder if this was really how adults behaved behind closed doors. Were they just mature on the outside? And if so, why were they afraid to be young and carefree?

I was even more confused as I saw Monique perform fellatio acts on Jeff during the movie. It certainly wasnt a child-like thing to do, but getting sick from the body chocolate and throwing up all over Jeff's lap was. So I decided to ask my friend Rose, at what age do people stop acting young and start acting mature? Unfortunately I never got the chance to ask Rose anything, because she interrupted me with an invitation to a dysfunctional Mother's Day dinner with her...Jesse...and Damien.

Sunday evening, at the Golden Corral Buffet, I was eating, yet another awkward dinner. Somehow, Jesse and Damien had made peace and were able to eat dinner at the same table, but somehow I couldnt accept their newfound friendship. The level of denial was just unbelievable. It was like that one episode of The Twilight Zone where all the people were different, except one person, and the others all thought that one single person was ugly when that person was really pretty, and so they made fun of that person, and...actually, come to think of it, weren't all the episodes pretty much like that?

As I got up to get a plate of pepperoni pizza and mashed potatoes, I started to think, that maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe I was the one that needed to grow up. It's like what my blog friend Jillian said on her blog...

"When I was younger and thought about where I would be at my age or older I always thought that I would have things under better control and that I knew where I was going to be going in my life, and the truth is, I do not the have the slighest idea."

And though, it's something I know I'll have time to figure out, I wondered if it was too soon to be thinking of becoming an adult. But then, as I saw hot chicken noodle soup spill onto the lap of an armless man, I laughed and realized I was not yet ready to be all mature. Someday, I would grow up, but for now, I was happy being the fast-talking, immature, non-French-speaking, person that I was.

As I came back to my dinner table to share my newfound wisdom, (and the funny armless man story) I found Damien, down on one knee, on soda-stained carpet. And it was right there, in front of me, Jesse, and a room full of outlet clothing and Fantastic Sam's haircuts, Damien proposed to Rose. I guess some people, just never grow up.

the definition of marriage

Three weeks ago, my blog friend Miss Jay posted this question on her blog: What causes one marriage to fail where another succeeds? Or better yet, for that matter, what makes a relationship work?

For my mother, it was obvious she believed that a good meal is what seals the deal. And true, they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but is that really enough? My mother asked me, how I did know Jennifer wasnt the right person for me if I never gave her a chance and the truth was, I didnt really know. But what made my mother think she knew what was best for me? It was like that magazine article I read in the 11th grade. In India, most marriages are arranged by the families. The bride and groom may never even see each other until the day of the wedding, yet divorce between such couples is rare. Was their way better than mine?

I needed some answers. So I went to my favorite downtown flower shop to find them.

What I found was that my friend Ashley was in a similar situation. The other week, Ashley's mother told her she had seven months to find a boyfriend. Her family decided to spend the upcoming 2006 New Years Eve going out, and apparently, for a parent, nothing is worse than bringing along your single 18-year-old daughter.

ME: Why dont you just ask one of your guy friends to do it?
ASHLEY: Because it wouldnt be fair to him. Having to drag him along and be with my family, when he could be at some party, is just not cool.
ME: I dont know. It could be fun. When you're with a friend, anything can be fun. Just dont ditch him, you know?
ASHLEY: Hmmm. You know what? Maybe you should be my boyfriend.
ME: What?
ASHLEY: Yeah. You should. I get my date for New Years and your mom gets off your back. It's so perfect and convient!

I didnt know what to think. I mean, yeah, sure, Ashley was cute, but was hooking up just because it was convient, enough? On the other hand it would get my mother off my back about having a girlfriend that I could marry, just so she could have grandkids. But I was still unsure. And with it being my last week of school and finals, finding a new girlfriend wasnt exactly my top priority.

The next morning, also known as, the last day of school, I found myself at the college computer commons room printing out my final term paper for journalism. And it was there that I saw my good high school friend, Elena. She was writing a last minute term paper on the issue of illegal immigrants, and after seeing how long it was, I asked her why she was so passionate on the subject.

ELENA: David...can I trust you?
ME: Yeah. Elena, you know you can.
ELENA: I'm an immigrant. An illegal one too. I came here from Mexico when I was six.
ME: Really? Like you wandered through the desert and actually crossed?
ELENA: Yeah. We crossed the border through a hole in the fence. Back then it was a lot easier.
ME: Wow. Elena I had no idea. I would have never thought you crossed the border. I mean, I know you're Mexican, but you dont even have an accent.
ELENA: Well sometimes I do.
ME: Arent you scared that someone might find out? That you might get taken away?
ELENA: I'm scared every day. I dont want to be, but I am.

It wasnt fair that Elena had to live a life of fear. She was a full time student who still managed to work 40 hours a week, while I being a sorta-full time student, with no job, complained about not having enough time for anything. For spring break, I dreamed about appearing on MTV hoping to get "discovered", while Elena stayed at home, never going anywhere, because she couldnt leave Tucson. It was a sad college life, and I coulnt help but feel sorry for her.

ME: So why dont you just marry your boyfriend James?
ELENA: Because I love him.
ME: Ok...and?
ELENA: If I marry him, it's like I was using him to get my green card. I cant do that to him. Plus it would look kinda fishy.
ME: How so?
ELENA: A Mexican marrying a German? That'll send up a red flag, and it'll look like I married him for my green card. No, I have to marry someone who's a U.S. citizen. Someone who's available, but not looking for anything romantic. And if he was Mexican, well, it wouldnt look so weird, you know?
ME: Uh, kinda...well do you have any friends like that?

No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, that I wondered whether or not Elena considered me a possible candidate for a groom. I was a U.S. citizen. I was available. And after seeing Elena swallow four onion chili dogs at a high school party one time and pass gas, even after she passed out, I certainly wasnt interested in anything romantic. I was the perfect guy. Hell, I even had that Mexican heritage thing she was looking for. But was Elena right? Was having a similar heritage really what it took to make a marriage work?

I could see why she thought she couldnt marry him, without it looking like she used him, but I couldnt see how she thought marrying a Mexican looked less suspicious than marrying a German. When you love someone, is a factor of heritage really that important?

After finishing her paper, Elena invited me to go out for sushi, but I had to decline. I kinda sensed that her sushi supper was more of loaded lunch with the possibility of marriage and though I did consider myself a good friend, getting married without being in love was just something I couldnt see myself doing. I always thought, that if that day should come, it would be with someone I not only loved but liked as well.

So what does makes a marriage work? Is it a matter of convience or is it having somthing in common? I know that love doesnt always exist in some marriages, but yet somehow, they still seem to work. For a whirlwind wedding that doesnt even exist, the whole talk of marriage is sure creating a great deal of stress...especially for the groom!

caged!

In life, certain events come along so rarely, that when they do, special attention must be paid. Events like Hayley's Comet, perfect birthday dinners, or in my case...getting a wife.

Back when my mother was bedridden with a broken ankle, and the unwanted free dinners were abundant, one meal came from a fellow co-worker of my mother, a kindergarten teacher named Mrs. Janice Marantino. Mrs. Marantino was a self-described, "classy Italian broad" who looked, talked, and acted just like Rosie O'Donnell. She brought us a classic Italian meal of spaghetti and meatballs to our house, and honestly, it was one of the best homemade dinners I ever had. I later found out, it was her daughter, Jennifer, that made the delicious meal, and of course, my mother took this as a sign of possible infatuation.

MOTHER: David. Dont you wanna have kids?
ME: Uh, yeah, but not right now.
MOTHER: Well, you do wanna get married, don’t you?
ME: Mother…I’m only 20 years old and in case you forgot, this isnt Kentucky.
MOTHER: And how many dates have you been on recently?
ME: Let's see...there was that one girl, who turned out to be gay and that one gay guy, who turned out to be psycho. Why do you care?
MOTHER: David, Jennifer is a nice sweet girl. She used to live in New York and you like New York.
ME: But...
MOTHER: She doesnt drive, so you can take her to school with you everyday.
ME: Mom, will you...
MOTHER: And she's a really great cook! Plus, I think you would really like Mrs. Marantino as your mother-in-law.

It was scary seeing my mom so set on marrying me off. And it was even more scarier when I learned that she and Mrs. Marantino had been planning a dinner for both me and Jennifer, behind my back. Everything was set...the food (Italian, of course)...the music (classic Henry Mancini)...everything. All except for one factor: me. I wasnt exactly keen on the idea of having such a pressured dinner, and so when my day of despised doom arrived last Friday, I ditched. I had already told my mother that I would not be going through with the dinner, but my words fell on her deaf ears.

I had hoped that once the weekend had passed, so would my mother's wretched wedding wishes. They, of course, didnt. In fact, the more I detested to the dinner date, the more my mother was determined to make it happen. Come hell or high water, my mother was going to make me eat dinner with Jennifer. Which explained Mrs. Marantino and Jennifer's pressence at my house yesterday.

My friend Madelaine was having a birthday dinner at El Charro, in very downtown Tucson, while I was at home, running very late. I had just stepped out of the shower and into my white terry-cloth robe, when I saw them...my possible future wife and possible future mother-in-law, sitting on the living room couch. Despite our irreparable differences, my devious mother had invited the ambiguously Italian Duo and demanded that I cancel my dinner date plans. I, of course, politely declinded, and so, as retribution, my mother hid my car keys. I was trapped. It was the ultimate ultimatum. And so I did what any mature adult in my situation would do...I called my friend Maria and climbed out my bedroom window.

A half hour later, Maria and I made our grand entrance in the outside courtyard of the Mexican restaurant. I'll admit, it was a bit selfish having all eyes upon Maria and me, instead of the birthday girl, but when you're wearing jeans that conceal from the world everything which is flawed and evil and show only that which is true and plump, could ya blame us?

The food was fantastic and as far as birthday dinners go, it was totally top-notch. At one point, the dinner even became heart-warming as Madelaine stood up and made a speech, telling every individual party guest why he or she was special. Unfortunately, Maria couldnt stick around to find out why she was special, as her special someone, Ray, called her for last-minute chemistry notes. As I walked Maria to her car, the hostess stopped me and handed me a note. It was from Paul, my crazed gay stalker.

David - 8:15 - Paul will be waiting in the parking lot for you.

How did Paul know I was here? And how long had he been watching me and my friends eat dinner? Just the thought of his pressence outside in the parking lot, waiting for me, made me sick. Or maybe it was that carne seca I ordered? Well, whatever it was, it made me feel trapped inside the restaurant. I didnt wanna leave. I couldnt. Didnt Paul know that his unanswered phone calls was a sign that I did not wanna talk to him? Or was his phone set on silent, therefore, making my plea fall on deaf ears?

And so I wonder...when you're trapped in a proverbial cage of fear and ignorance, and are tired of running away from your problems...how do you make your deaf captors listen?

the secret life of colette

The other day, near the Burberry cologne counter at Dillards, I bumped into my good friend Colette. I had known Colette since the seventh grade, when her mouth was full of metal and her hair was full of butterflies, and have had a crush ever since. We hung out during high school and even went to prom together, but during my first year in college we sorta fell out of touch...mostly because Colette never paid her phone bill. So you can imagine how ecstatic I was to see her.

COLETTE: David?!
ME: Hey!
COLETTE: What's up?! How've you been?!
ME: I'm good. Just...shopping.
COLETTE: Me too!
ME: Yeah, I can tell...
COLETTE: Hey! Wanna help me pick out a Coach bag?

Coach bag? Seriously? Was I the only one who remembered that this was the same girl who used to sew on patches of rock bands onto a denim bag she bought at Target? Obviously, the girl had changed, and yet, I was still the same blubbering idiot who stuttered and sweated when in her pressence.

While I blabbered on, something about dolphins (whatever...I dont wanna talk about it!) Colette admired the assortment of Coach bags, behind the bullet-proof counter. And it was during this time, that a flood of my saliva showered out of my mouth and onto her lime-green halter. Because her head was turned, Colette couldnt see what I saw...my spit, slowly slithering down, making it's way to her denim capris. As luck would have it, the Optic Signature Shoulder Tote Colette was trying on for size, stopped my runny spit and saved me from further embarassment. God bless Coach.

Colette bought the bag, and not a moment too soon, since Dillards was now closed. I walked Colette to her car and told her, that her newly streaked hair, made her look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffanys. She, of course, had no idea who I was talking about, and didnt know whether or not I had given her a compliment or a slap across the face.

ME: You've never seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?
COLETTE: Who's Tiffany? And why is she having breakfast?
ME: Tiffany isnt a girl. It's a place. The jewelery place?
COLETTE: Oh. Ok. I didnt know you could have breakfast there.
ME: You cant...it's just...the name of the movie.

Ok, I'll admit. Colette wasnt exactly the brightest diamond in the rough, and was a few carats short of a tennis bracelet from Tiffanys, but she was still cute. And as we all know, the rules according to guys, clearly state that "cuteness rules over intelligence any day of the week."

Because my car was on the other side of the mall, Collette offered me a ride, while I tried to convince her that my Audrey Hepburn comment was a total compliment. We arrived at my car, and just as I was stepping out, I was also in the middle of telling Colette that she needed to check out that movie. Before I even had a chance to shut the door, Colette drove away. I was plauged with confusedness. I mean, sure, Colette gave me her new number and told me to call her, but maybe her driving away was meant to be some kind of coded tu culpa?

There were so many questions I wanted her to answer, but would not ask. Not tonight, at least. But soon. Unfortunately I couldnt find anyone who thought talking to Colette was a good idea. My friend Madelaine suggested my best would be to forget the mess that was Colette, but I couldnt. And after seeing her again yesterday, I'm not so sure...

As I was blog-surfing, I read on my fellow blog friend Johanna Edward's blog about that newly controversial book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life by Kaavya Viswanathan, a story written by a girl, who had a secret herself. Allegedly, this young author had plagiarized many passages from other chick-lit novels, and so of course, I went to the mall to investigate. And it was there that I saw Colette.

COLETTE: David! What are you doing here?
ME: Well, I'm not shopping for jeans.
COLETTE: Yeah...I'm...
ME: Hey, I'm sorry I didnt call you.

As I waited for a response from Colette, I noticed a really strange guy standing next to Colette. He had dark, curly hair and was wearing one of those really retro shirts with a dragon print on it. (Hm. So that's who's keeping that company in business, huh?) He was the epitome of geek, but there he was holding hands with Colette.

ME: Hi.
GEEK: Hey what's up.
ME: So you're...
COLETTE: Ok, well, I'll call you, then! Bye!

The girl couldnt get away from me faster. And as I saw her and her alleged boyfriend leave the book store, I wondered, what's up with Colette? Why did she keep running away from me? Was it something I said or something I did? And who was that weird guy she was holding hands with? What kind of secret was Colette trying to hide, and is it really worth finding out?

peace of mind

Your cell phone is vibrating. Again. There are over a dozen unread and unanswered emails in your inbox all marked urgent. You try to ignore the unpaid pile of bills on your desk by focusing on a breaking news story, only to be distracted by the tiny ticker on the bottom. Your favorite vintage Tee you were planning on wearing is still dirty, there's a wail of an ambulance siren outside that wont quit, and as far as dinner's concerned? You're no closer to making it then you are winning that billion dollar lottery.

It's days like these that you just need a break from it all. I, of course, find my break in the mall, in a little place called, Origins. It's a store where one can find skin care products, candles, bath oils, and just about everything else you need to help you unwind for a relaxing afternoon. My choice of peace? The Peace of Mind™ gumballs. Filled with peppermint, basil, and eucalyptus, these tiny white gumballs not only help tense jaw muscles relax and unclench, they help soothe the band of tightness around your head as the pressure, tension and the weight of the world melt blissfully away.

And I knew that on a day like last Thursday I was going to need them.

It was the day before the funeral, and I went to the downtown flower shop to help my friend Madelaine arrange floral wreaths for her five-month-six-day old, kinda-sorta nephew. (I say "kinda-sorta" since it's kinda-sorta easier than saying "Madelaine's mother's boyfriend's daughter's baby." Yeah.) As I helped spray-paint the white carnations baby-blue, I realized that these flowers werent just for anyone. They were for somebody whose life was cut short. Way too short.

The very thought of the whole thing was depressing. We were going to bury a baby. And maybe it's just me, but I dont think people arent supposed to bury their babies. Babies are supposed to bury their parents after they have lived a long and fruitful life. It was heartbreaking, reading his tiny obituary, but it was even more heartbreaking seeing my friend arrange his baby Kermit doll and baby rattles on his wreath. A few times I could see Madelaine tear up, but each time she stopped, knowing that she needed to be strong for both herself and her family.

Friday morning, I attended the funeral of Heriberto Cota Cruz Jr. It was a small ceremony at Martinez Funeral Chapel, with close friends and family. And under the maroon flouresent lights and the larger than life painting of a sad Jesus, holding an antomically correct heart with a crown of thorns surrounding it, was a tiny powder blue casket. The kind of blue that made prom tuxes look tacky, but on a baby casket...somehow, the color was refined.

I, however, wasnt as refined. Under the blood red lights, my charcoal-grey, Ben Sherman shirt turned into a weird shade of lavendar-plum. My black square-toed shoes were pinching my toes. And my hair? Well...let's not even go there. So much for death with dignity. But as I approached the tiny casket, all my problems seemed to fade. My shirt seemed less colorful, my shoes pinched a whole lot less and my hair wasnt a big disaster as I thought it was. I had somehow found peace with my look.

And sitting on the front pew, Madelaine had found peace with Heriberto's (aka Squishy) passing.

MADELAINE: I dont know, David. It's weird. I feel like I should be more sad.
ME: Why?
MADELAINE: Cuz my Squishy died and all, and I'm not even crying as much as I thought I would. It's like...I know that that's not my Squishy up there. It doesnt even look like him.
ME: Oh, I know. They totally messed up his eyelashes. They're way too clumpy.
MADELAINE: Yeah. I know. They did a bad job. He doesnt look like I remember him. That's not my Squishy up there. My Squishy is in a better place. And I think, just by believing in that...
ME: ...it's why you're not sad.

Unlike the baby's mother, who was crying a never-ending flow of tears, Madelaine knew in her heart, that that body in the powder blue casket wasnt her Squishy, because her Squishy was in Heaven. By believing in that her Squishy was in a better place, Madelaine was able to find peace with his passing.

And I was able to find peace, with my issues of death. I realized, thanks to most of y'all's comments up in here, that death shouldnt be something to fear. Rather, it should be seen as an adventure and something to look foward to. And until that day comes, I should just relax and not even think about it and just live life.

As we said our goodbyes to Heriberto, Madelaine left him with one last prayer and I left him with one last Peace of Mind™ gumball.

I shall call him Squishy...

True, he couldnt use the gum...

and he shall be mine...

and it probably would attract more bugs to his coffin...

and he shall be my Squishy.

but maybe, knowing that he had Peace of Mind with him, would give us all, peace in our mind that somewhere out there, Heriberto was looking down on us, smiling and enjoying his afterlife adventure.

Come on, Squishy! Come on, little Squishy!

death does not become him

They say there are only three things certain in life. Change. Taxes. And death. And though they are an invevitable part of life, something you must experiece at one time or another, is it wrong to ignore it and just wait for the inevitable to pass?

Friday morning, I went to visit my friend Madelaine at her work, the downtown flower shop. The shop opened at 8:30, and already it was 8:38. My friend was late, which was odd, since she was one of the most punctual people I knew. Something was wrong. But what, I didnt know. My suspicions were confirmed when Madelaine called me a few minutes later.

MADELAINE: David...(sob)...?
ME: Madelaine? What's wrong?
MADELAINE: Can you do me a huge favor?
ME: Yeah, sure. Are you ok?
MADELAINE: No...just...(sob)...can you open the shop for me? Alice is in the hospital...(sob)...
ME: Why? What happened?
MADELAINE: She has kidney stones, but that's not important. I'm not coming in because...(sob)...you know Alicia?
ME: Your kinda-sorta-step-sister?
MADELAINE: Yeah...(sob).... her baby died this morning.

It was a bomb, I wasnt expecting. Alicia's baby wasnt even five-months-old. Five-month-old's just cant die like that...could they? It was a question, I knew, that wasnt appropriate to ask at such a time, nor was it one that I wanted to find out the answer to. I tuned in and out as my teary-voiced friend told her tale of tribulation, only listening to the parts where she explained how to open and set up the shop.

As I hung up the phone, I realized, as a friend, I was totally not there. I had ignored my grieving friend as she talked about her kinda-sorta-nephew's death. I couldnt imagine the pain my friend was going through and listening to her talk about death as she was in the middle of experiencing it first-hand, was hard.

I called the other employees to come in early, since I of course, didnt even work at the flower shop, and was afraid of pushing the wrong button and burning the entire place down. I mean, I'm sure, Alice, the owner didnt install such a button, but with my luck, I wasnt taking any chances.

After Adrianna and Ashley came in, all they could talk about was Alice's kidney stones and the unimaginable pain Madelaine must've been going through. I felt uncomfortable talking about the death of Madelaine's kinda-sorta-nephew, and tried changing the subject several times, but each time, the subject found me. How could Adrianna and Ashley be so comfortable talking about death as if it were just a everyday kinda thing? Maybe it was me. Maybe I was the weird one for not accepting death.

After I left the flower shop, I started thinking how precious life can be. One moment, you’re making plans, and the next, life makes its own plans for you. It’s an unexpected thing that should never be taken for granted and should be lived to the fullest. Which is why I couldnt understand my retired missionary neighbor Mrs. Deliccio's request.

Last week, Mrs. Deliccio found out that she had breast cancer. I found out after I had left the little flower shop of horror. It was one surprise, right after the other. And like my earlier surprise, Mrs. Deliccio and her husband also had a request. Spreading the Word of God for over 50 years, all over the world, the Deliccio's never had a chance to settle down and raise a family. And since the day, I moved into my house, two years ago, the Deliccio's have come to think of me as the son they never had.

And as the son they never had, the Deliccio's have asked me to be a witness, making sure that tomorrow, Wednesday, Mrs. Deliccio is of sound mind and body as she signs the neccessary papers needed to state, that should anything go wrong in the operating room, she would not want to be kept alive by way of life support. Instead, she would like to die and meet her Maker peacefully. But as the son they never had, shouldnt I speak up and say that, wanting to die instead of live is just plain insane and not normal?

For most people, when you're young, your whole life is about the pursuit of fun. Then, you grow up and learn that you have to be cautious. Life isnt as easy as you once thought it was and so you vow to make each day count. You live life to the fullest. And I wonder, when did life stop being fun and start being scary? And is it so wrong that I'm ignoring death and not giving it the full acknowledgement it needs?

do we the deformed not feel?

Wednesday morning, I woke up rejuvinated and refreshed, thinking of the infinite possibilities a day like that could hold. Perhaps, I would volunteer at nursing home or maybe find a cure to end all world hunger. Or at the very least find a pair of plaid boardshorts that matched my light-blue Empyre jacket. After taking a shower and eating breakfast, I proceeded to do my hair.

For me, doing my hair, is like constructing a building. I lay out the foundation using pomade and putty. Then, to support the structure of the hair, I use a comination of wax, paste, glue, gel, volumizer and moouse. To get the look of really great second-day-dirty-bedhead hair, I then rub a towel over my head, pushing my hair foward. A spray of hairspray, and bada-bing, bada-boom! I am sportin' one stylishly cool, coifed, head of hair.

I was in the middle of gluin' and gelin' when I realized I didnt have a towel. The towel closet only had fancy guest towels, and thats when I noticed the rag on my brother Darrin's nightstand. I was on my way to lookin' hot, when my younger brother Collin saw me using the rag.

COLLIN: David!
ME: What?
COLLIN: That's Darrin's rag!
ME: So? He aint using it.
COLLIN: No! It's his rag!
ME: Ok. It's his. Who cares?

And that's when I saw beads of a white gooey substance in my hair. Apparently, it was a rag Darrin used nightly. I freaked. It just couldnt be. There was just no way I had a head full of jizz in my hair. But there it was. Taunting me, and making me angier by the second. I didnt have time to wash my hair and build it again, so as I rubbed my hair with a fancy guest towel, I pleaded with God, asking him to rid my head of spooge. And he did. For the most part. But there, at the top of my head, was a cowlick, like no other. I was already running late, and my hair was starting to set. So I did the next best thing. I cut a chunk of my cum-covered-hair.

My hair was ruined. A disaster beyond repair. And because I never liked the way I look in a hat, there was just no hiding to the fact that I my hair was deformed. But the funny thing is, no one really noticed the damage. Was I just overreacting to something not that big?

Later that day, I went to my dermatologist, to have a mole looked at. As it turns out, it was bordering in wart territory and so Dr. Brehnan zapped my face with freezing cold nitrogen. As I left his office, he told me that the mole would blister and that it would take ten days for to heal. Ten days. What could possibly make my doctor assume that I could look awful for 10 days? And then I realized, that maybe he saw my hair.

Devastated, with my jacked-up hair do and my face looking like Eric Stoltz in Mask, I decided my best option was to stay at home, and surround myself with orange cones and police tape. But I couldnt. I had a test in my Geo class, and so it was with a deformed look, I went to school.

I could feel everyone's eyes on me, and for all the bad reasons. I mean, being the center of attention is kinda cool, but when you look like you should come between the man with three nipples and the bearded lady at a circus freak show...not so great.

The weird thing about my abnormality was that it didnt seem to bother anyone, but me. What was even weirder was that it opened the bonds of communication to the other freaks and geeks in my classes. People who I never talked to before, started talking to me, acting as if we had been aquaintances for so many years. For a whole semester, these people ignored me, and I them, but now...it was different.

Was it that obvious that I looked like a wreck? And why was it that it took my hideous, Quasimodo-esque deformation for these people and I to talk? Is it because I was now one of them? It's weird. Before, it seemed as if there was an unwritten, mutual agreement that they keep to their own fantasy world and I to mine. But now, with my herpe-looking face and lawn mower hair cut, I feel as if the only reason they're talking to me is because I look...like...one of them...

a family of feelings

Last Monday, I got my picture taken for the cover of a puzzle/game box. It was a ton of fun, as people fussed over the lighting and how the models should pose. I thought that I would finally be able to see the puzzle/game that I was helping to endorse, but unfortunately, I didnt. I had to smile and pose around an empty table, along with my fellow models, pretending to play the game.

As I looked at the other deluded smiling models, I wondered if this was how it was done in the real world of modeling. Were products just placed in after the pictures were taken? My questions were soon answered as my newly fellow model-friend, Miguel, made a comment about the whole thing and received a very stern answer from the photographer.

ME: Dude. How dare you question the greatest photographer of our time.
MIGUEL: Whatever, this is glay. I mean...gay.
ME: Ha! Dude you messed it up. You're stupid.
MIGUEL: Shut up!

I couldn't help but fight my laughter, as Miguel kept making little side comments every time the photographer said something. And me, being of the quick-witted mind, followed his comments with my jokes, as well. After the photo shoot, I hung out with Miguel and we became, as he put it, "soul-brotha's". It was funny how one could be considered part of the family after only a few jokes, but I guess when you decide to make a family out of friends, you get to choose who you want and dont want. And as a part of this new family, Miguel invited me to go with him and a few other friends to Douglas.

Saturday night, I was in Douglas, two hours away from Tucson, and two minutes away from the border of Mexico. And it was there, in downtown Mexico that I partied with my new family of friends. The club was hot, and yet, oh so quiet. The reason being that the music could only be heard through headphones, that were supplied by the club, rather than from overhead speakers. Apparently, this was a club that wanted its patrons to meet, drink, and stay. And stay, I did. One drink turned into many and before I knew it, I was falling asleep on the bed of a sleezy motel. To avoid looking like I had been up all night partying, I decided to stay up all morning. Unfortunately, my plan fell through.

Sunday morning, a time for rest, a time for relaxation, a time for getting over last night's hangover. As my pastor talked about Christ rising from the grave, all I could think about was last night's dinner, rising up my throat. Sure, it probably wasnt the holiest of thoughts I ever had in a church, but then again, how holy would it be if I pulled a Linda Blair?

After church, we headed over to my Uncle Richard's house for an Easter barbeque, and it was there, in the middle of my barbeque glazed chicken lunch, that my Aunt Corinna decided to tell us, my uncle was leaving for Afghanistan this Friday. It was a shock to all, except for my uncle and aunt who had known about the trip for several months. And it was at that moment in time, while everyone asked questions, I found myself, not really caring about my uncle going to war.

My uncle isnt really one of the friendliest people you'll meet. In fact, if you were to go up to him and introduce yourself, he'd give you a grunt and then walk away. He was the type of guy who distanced himself from his loved ones, even at family gatherings. So it comes to know surprise that I'm not really all that close to him. Which is sad, seeing that he's leaving for Afghanistan and I really dont have any feelings for his leave of absense.

Instead, I felt closer to my new family of friends in Douglas than I did with my family here in Tucson. And then it hit me. Maybe I was like my uncle, in that I had more fun elsewhere, than I did with my own family. To me, the most important thing in life is your family. There are days when you love them, and others when you don't. But in the end, they're the people you always come home to. Sometimes it's the family you're born into and sometimes it's the one you make for yourself. And I wonder, is it bad to have more feelings for the family you make, rather than the family you already have?

catching flies

It's been said, that you can catch more flies with honey, than you can wih vinegar. And unless you have a reptile or amphibious pet, I never understood why you would want to catch flies. But what I do understand is, if you want someone to do something for you, ya gotta act sweet. Which explained why, last Tuesday, my-not-so-hot-post-it-friend-girl Corrie wore a baby blue corset, under a fitted black blazer. Obviously, the girl was after something, and as it turns out, it was me. I was the fly. Sorta.

Ms. Tyler, my journalism teacher, said, that as a final, we were all required to write a news article. And since I was found to be the most interesting person in class, Corrie decided to do a feature profile on moi. I thought the very idea was a bit narcissistic, but after some convincing arguments from fellow classmates, I relented and agreed to meet Corrie for lunch the next day.

That night, I got to thinking what kind of outfit would the most interesting person wear? In entertainment magazines, all the most interesting celebrities go casual e.g. flip flops and jeans, and so I figured why not me? After much consideration, I finally decided on a pair of olive green cargo pants from Express, my brown Crocs, a white t-shirt, and oversized white sunglasses. It was totally casual, with a hint of subtle sophistication. It was just the kind of look celebrities hoped to be caught candid in. Too bad the paparazzi here in Tucson, is like almost non-exisistant.

Wednesday afternoon, at exactly 1:45 PM, I arrived at Cafe Poca Cosa, an upscale Mexican restaurant, where the waiters looked like models and the lunch menu changed more often than Sarah Jessica Parker at the MTV movie awards. Immeadiately I was seated by two hostess' who both offered me a glass of wine. But being that I wasnt 21 and afraid they'd card me after I drank it, I declined and stuck to my water with cucumber slices.

Fifteen minutes later, me and my casually cool clothes were still waiting. Where was Corrie? Was I being stood up? Was Corrie trying to get back at me for going out with Paul that one time instead of her? But how would she know that? Maybe she was psychic. I realized, I only had about five dollars in cash on me, and began to wonder if restaurants really did make their low-fundage patrons wash dishes. But I only had water and complimentary tortilla chips. They wouldnt do that, would they? As I began to formulate a complicated dine-and-dash plan, in walked Corrie, the journalist du jour. And following the journalist du jour, was Damien. And his girlfriend.

Quickly I looked out the front window and tried to cover my face. This was not happening! Damien's too ghetto to eat in a fancy restaurant like this. Who does he think he is, trying to walk up in here, all casually dressed in jeans? I mean, really who wears jeans to a hip, happenin' place like Cafe Poca Cosa?

CORRIE: Hey David!
ME: Ok, do you really need to shout my name with such enthusiasm? God, you're worse than a cheerleader on crack! Hey!
CORRIE: What's wrong?
ME: Oh, uh, nothing. I just have a, I have a, whatchamacallit, itch on my face.
CORRIE: Oh. Ok.
ME: Yeah, and...and, um...
DAMIEN: David?
ME: Shit muthafucker fuck shit!

Damien spotted me. I could feel his eyes on me, and so I continued to scratch the non-existent itch which had spread to my entire face, hoping that he would get the hint. Or at the very least, ignore the person with severe turrets. I mean, what would I say to him?

DAMIEN: David?
ME: Oh, hey! Dude, what's up? I didnt even see you there!
DAMIEN: Yeah. Um, can I talk to you real quick?
ME: Oh, well, I dont know. I'm actually kinda on this, um, this, uh date thing with this person friend and, you know...
DAMIEN: Dude. Just real quick. I need to know how Rose is.
ME: Yeah. Yeah. Um, she's ok, but um...
DAMIEN: Is she mad at me? How's Katrina?
ME: Uh, I dont know. I, um...
DAMIEN: David! Just real quick. Five minutes.

I sat there, unsure of what to do. I mean, did he really expect me to just get up and tell him that everything was all right? That Rose was just fine and dandy? That his three-year-old daughter was telling everyone she met, "My daddy scares my mommy and me." Luckily, Damien's girlfriend, came over and whisked him away. The problem may have disappeared, but unfortunately, it wasnt solved.

CORRIE: Well. That was rude, huh?
ME: I know. I'm sorry about that. I didnt think he'd ask so many questions.
CORRIE: No. I meant, you ignoring me. That was kinda rude.

Oh, no she di-int! This bitch, trying to tell me it's rude for friends to table hop and chat. Wasn't she the one who was late? Wasnt she the one that didnt have the audacity to phone the hostess? And it's not like I ignored her. I acknowledged her pressence. Sorta.

After the waitress came and took our order, Corrie began to interrogate me. Where did I grow up? What do I like to do for fun? Where do I see myself in the next 5 years? I wasnt exactly sure, but what I did know was, Corrie would not be in my future. After all these months of having a kinda-semi-sorta crush on Corrie, my intrest in my not-so-hot-post-it-friend-girl faded away. Throughout the entire lunch, she complained about everything. The chicken was too dry. The slice of watermelon garnish on her salad was out of season. The restaurant decor had no heart and was way too modern/good for Tucson.

Maybe she was trying to impress me, but instead she only managed to turn me off with her acid tongue. The food was excellent, top-notch really, and unless she went down on Brad Pitt every night, I highly doubted that Corrie had put anything better in her mouth. Besides, I couldnt be with someone like that. Someone who looked for the bad in everything. Because when you look for the bad in something, you will surely find it.

As our lunch began to dwindle down, the waitress presented us with a large glass dish of chocolate mousse, compliements of "our friend." The very word, made my stomach turn, and I knew, without a second of a doubt, that it was from Damien. Corrie, spooned at the dessert like there was no tomorrow, but I couldnt. I was now the fly, and Damien's honey was this mousse. This delicious, airy, chocolatey, smooth...ok, so maybe I could just try it. I could tell Damien really was concerned about the reprecussions of his actions from last weekend, but I wasnt sure how to tell him that it was gonna take a lot of honey to get on Rose's good side. Obviously he knew his behavior stung like vinegar. And now, here he was trying to lure his past life back into his life, using me as the honey.

He called four times yesterday, and I'm still not sure what to say. If I help Rose and Damien get back together and they break up, it's my fault. If they dont get back together, Damien will tell Rose that I tried to help reunite the odd couple, therefore assuming the fact that I think the only man that should be in her life is Damien, forcing Rose to never speak to me again. It's a classic no-win situation.

movin' on foward

Two weeks ago, I went to the wedding of my ex-boss's sister, with my ex-employee friend Rose, who so happened to be cousins with my ex-boss's baby's daddy. Following me so far? It was your average southern Arizona wedding. Invitations created and copied at Kinkos, a cake from Costco, and a four-month pregnant blushing bride.

At a wedding this size, it's almost natural to run into someone you know. And that's exactly what happened to Rose. She ran into an old family friend and her 17-year old son, Jesse. Immeadiately 21-year old Rose was smitten and spent the entire wedding reception talking to Jesse, leaving me to babysit her annoying 16-year old sister.

The following week, Rose asked me if I would help her move into her new house. She was tired of living the life of an apartment dweller, and bought a small, two-bedroom house in central Tucson for her daughter Katrina and her. As we packed Rose and Katrina's life away into boxes, I could tell Rose was genuinally happy. She had a new home, a daughter who always made her smile, and a new man in her life. She was moving foward. And being that she was a high school drop out/unwed mother, it was important to Rose to move foward and away from being just another statistic. Her life was running smoothly, unlike the car that followed us.

On our last trip from the apartment to the house, a dark car followed us shining very high headlights and turning them off every so often. It was very cheesy-teen-horror-flick, which at first freaked us out, but when we saw it was a huge van, we laughed. How cliché would it be for the van driver to blow out our tires and harvest our organs right there in the van? As it turns out, the very idea was very likely.

Last Saturday, Rose held a birthday party for Katrina in their new house. It was a Little Mermaid party that lasted well into the night, and since I was clearly under the sea of a drunken state, I stayed the night. As did Jesse.

I was just getting ready to watch MTV's Yo Momma, when all of a sudden I heard a loud crash. Not two seconds later, a half-naked Jesse ran into the room, followed by a topless, pink-pantie wearing Rose. I stared at the two, almost stark-naked, lovers and wondered how violent that momma and her boy made love. It was then that we heard a pounding on the back door.

ME: Rose! What's going on?!
ROSE: Damien is here!
ME: What?! Why?!
ROSE: That muthafucker broke my window!

Damien was the father of Rose's baby, and apparently, just like Jesse, he was trying to make a late-night visit through the back door. Within a matter of seconds, Damien broke the door down, pointed to Jesse and attacked. It was like a live Jerry Springer show and I had front row seats. Katrina was crying, Rose was screaming, and Damien was swinging, trying to get away from Jesse's headlock. I of course, sat on the living room couch with a bowl of chips watching the whole thing.

ROSE: David! Help me!
ME: Are you kidding me? I cant scrap.
ROSE: You're a guy!
ME: Yeah, for procreation, not combat! Besides, Jesse has it under control.

Which was true. Despite being six years older and more experienced than Jesse, Damien was getting his ass kicked like nobody's business.

ME: I wonder if Damien is embarassed. Poor guy. Cant even get in a few punches. Damn! Ouch! Ok, so I guess I better mentally note not to ever piss off Jesse. Hmmm. I should also probably tell Rose she has a tear in her underwear. So not sexy. Oh God. Rose, dont fight! You're not even wearing a bra! Wow, those are big! How are Jesse and Damien not even distracted? Maybe they're gay...oh wouldnt that be a cool twist?

But the only twisting going on, was Damien's arm. Damien ran out of the house, crying and cursing Rose. Rose tended to Jesse's wounds and Katrina's crying, while I looked out into the front yard. There was Damien, driving away in a dark van.

Once the excitment had died down, I started to wonder if Rose was mad at me. When someone from your past gets into a fight with someone in your present, and your friends just sit and watch it happen, how likely would you include them in your future? The more I think about it, the more I wished I would have intervened and stopped Jesse and Damien. But I didnt and as a result, Rose recieved a broken hand and probably a broken spirit. I feel like I should talk to Damien, and tell him that if Rose had moved on, then maybe he should as well. But if I cant even talk to my own stalker (aka Paul) how can I talk to another?

the contribution

The other day in my journalism class, my teacher, Ms. Tyler read my class a story. It was about a lady named Miss Rumphius, whose grandfather had told her to do three things before she died: travel to faraway places, live by the sea in her old age, and contribute something to make the world more beautiful.

Despite the fact it was a cheap ploy to get my fellow classmates and I to contribute our time and writing to next semester's college newspaper, the story struck a chord within me. What would be my contribution to the world? I wasnt too concerned about the traveling and living by the sea since I had a whole lifetime to accomplish those tasks, so I figured I'd settle on my worldly contribution. That's when a dark cloud settled over my computer. As I checked my email, I noticed one from Josh Levin, I didnt get the Slate Internship.

Thank you very much for applying for our summer internship. I’m sorry to say that we’re going to be hiring someone else for the position. I appreciate the time and effort you put into the application and thank you for your patience. Best of luck in the future, and I encourage you to contact me again if you have a story contribution that you think might work for Slate.

Best, Josh

That was one contribution I had no intention of contributing to. Devastated, I felt the only thing I could do was to console myself with endless sugar-coated crap, so I headed to the campus cafeteria. That's when I met Mary, a talent scout who was looking for students to model for the cover of a game/puzzle box. It wasnt a major product, just a small toy that would be made here in town and sold at the next college fundraiser. My crushed feeling were somewhat mollified, and so I agreed to do it. It would be a contribution to my school!

I felt so satisfied, I decided to make more contributions. But what? What else could I possibly give to the world? What else could I put out there that would make me a part of a dialouge?

Later on that week, on Thursday, as I considered my contribution options, one of my fellow math classmates invited me to a frat party. Jason had been struggling in class for a while, and felt the only proper contribution he could make to the people who helped him would be to invite them to get drunk.

True it was a small contribution, but it was one that led to a big party. It was your average college mixer: ten percent jock, ten percent slacker, and jello shots with with way more than ten percent alcohol. As I made the rounds, before I committed to a location, Jason saw me and invited me to the whipping room.

ME: A whipping room?
JASON: Yeah.
ME: For like eggs and butter?
JASON: Um, ok.
ME: Yeah, I guess. I didnt have anything to eat all day. Where is it at?
JASON: It's down the hallway to the left.

Turns out the room served more than breakfast. Two asian ladies in black leather dominatrix outfits and a guy in a leather thong and mask, escorted the party-goers to a sexual expression of being whipped like a horse. Wa-cha! It was totally humiliating, but like a car accident, I couldnt look away. The masochist students obviously enjoyed the crop but I wasnt drunk enough to enjoy that crap, so I left the room.

An hour later, Mistress Ana, one of the ladies who used and abused the crop, came out from the whipping room for a drink.

ANA: So, have you been whipped yet?
ME: No.
ANA: Why? You should try it!
ME: Yeah, I dont think so. I never really got off painful fetishes.
ANA: Pain? It's not pain. It's healthy fun! Plus, if I can make those people happy, then I'm happy.

Apparently Mistress Ana's contribution to the world was painful pleasure. It was a weird contribution, but it made people happy. And it got me thinking. Would my modeling contribution make others happy or just me? And if it was just me that would be happy, wasnt that contribution be considered selfish? And what if the game turned out to be super lame, like a 9 piece puzzle? What kind of contribution to the world would that be...me sitting at a desk, struggling to put together a puzzle?

the bad kisser vs the bad boy

Two weeks ago, on the grassy knoll of a university campus, two mere mortal lovers fell back in love. After spending a week of camping in the woods (I know, let's not go there...), Ray realized that the tired and true cliché "absence makes the heart grow fonder" did hold some truth. The cold and dark forest, made Ray realize that life without my friend Maria was just as cold and dark, and so immeadiately, the following Monday morning, Ray asked Maria to go steady. And Maria, who believed in the cliché, "three times the charm" accepted.

Since then, the two have been inseperable and so it was surprising when I met Maria, yesterday at Magpies Pizza for lunch, and saw a big purple bruise on her chin.

ME: Maria! What happened to your face?!
MARIA: David! Shhh! Dont be so loud!
ME: Sorry! Sorry! It's just...what happened?!
MARIA: Ray.
ME: Did he hit you?!
MARIA: No, he kissed me.
ME: Huh?
MARIA: Ray kissed me and, well, he's not really, that good at it.

Maria then began to fill me in on the downside of dating Ray. True, he had the build of a soccer player. And true he had a head of hair that would probably last him until he was 80. But what was also true, was that when it came down to making out, Ray just didnt make the cut. According to Maria, Ray used too much teeth and too much suction and focused his attention on her face rather than on her lips. Although, to be fair, Maria did say he gave good head. Apparently, the dude was only able to make out with one set of lips.

As we ate lunch, Maria wondered if giving a bad kisser a second chance was a good thing. I thought, it was, because if Ray was willing to give the relationship a second chance, why shouldn't Maria? To me, kissing is an art. Originality isnt always a good thing when it comes to kissing, but, if there's enough of a connection there, cant the worst of bad kisses be forgiven?

After lunch, we headed to the U of A, where Maria and I were greeted by Ray and his tutoring student, Elisha. The moment Ray saw Maria, his face lit up and immeadiately he jumped out of his seat and rushed over to her...where he then began to ravage the enitre left side of her face. I stood in horror as I watched Ray kiss/chomp on my friend's face, making these weird "Mmmmmm!" noises. And all the while, Maria just stood there, smiling. I felt bad for the guy. I knew he meant well, but this was just too much! I was about to rescue my friend from being eaten alive, when Elisha spoke up.

ELISHA: Ray! What the hell are you doing?
RAY: I'm giving my sugar, some sugar.

Oh, God please tell me this is a joke...

ELISHA: You're eating her face! You dont know how to kiss!
RAY: Elisha, you're only in middle school. Trust me, when you get older, you're gonna do the same thing with your boyfriend.

Ebarrassed by both Ray's kissing technique and advice, a determined and impatient Maria grabbed Ray by the chin, squeezing his mouth into an "O" and kissed his mouth shut, only to have Ray stick his tongue out and lick her bottom lip and chin. It was beyond gross and Ray was beyond help.

Later on that day, as I walked Maria to her car, her friend Doogy saw us and asked if we would be willing to help him and his band, Double Top, set up for a gig. They were opening for another band called, (ironically enough) "The Life And Times" and with no real plans set, Maria and I agreed. The music was good, but the free drinks were even better. And since I was designated drinker, I drank Fantasy Island Iced Teas all night long, which were kinda like Long Island Iced Teas but with three times the alcohol. A guy could get used to being with the band.

By the end of my second drink and the second opening act, I was faded. My lips on a nice, cold, tall drink was just what I needed. And apparently, a bad, hot, tall drink of man, was exactly what Maria needed. Through a hazy and intoxicated gaze, I could see Maria making out with the drummer, aka Derric.

ME: Maria...what are you doing?
MARIA: Oh, David, I know, but he's so cute! Don't you think he's cute?
ME: Yeah, if you like that whole, "I-cant-afford-a razor-or-any-hair-product look."
MARIA: Whatever. He's a really good kisser! He doesnt chew on me!
ME: Yeah, but what about Ray?
MARIA: What about him? We're still together.
ME: Yeah, well when you're kissing another guy like that, it's kinda hard to tell.
MARIA: David. I'm just kissing Derric, that's all. Just be happy for me.

I tried to be happy for Maria, but I couldnt. I knew, that somewhere out there, Ray was thinking of Maria, while here in the bar, Derric was thinking of doing something with Maria somewhere down there. Derric was a self-proclaimed bad boy, with the Tony Manero look down to a T, and it was a persona that Maria was instantly attracted to. She claimed her hot and heavy makeout session was just a one night fun thing, but still, the whole thing bothered me. I guess it's because so many people have left comments that I'm a good guy, and I feel that Ray's a good guy, so somehow, it just didnt seem fair. Sure, his kissing was atrocious, but was it reason enough for Maria to go look for hot mouth-on-mouth action elsewhere? Is there any hope for the good guys? Or should we just let the bad guys win and hope it all works out in the end?

the problem with paul

Two days after our last hang out, Paul had called eight times, an average of one call every six hours. As soon as his name popped up on my caller ID, I screened the call. It wasnt so much that I didnt want to talk to him, as it was that I had so much math homework and so little time. I knew what Paul had to say wasnt really important, because the messages he left me were about five minute long and about nothing in particular. Just random ramblings of nothingness.

Tuesday came, and foolishly, I answered the phone to a neurotic Paul, who, for the next two hours, told me how his Ex had called, asking to reconcile with him. It was a relationship problem that Paul knew the answer to. Hell, he even had relationship stories that supported and proved his theory that getting back together with his Ex was just no good.

The problem with Paul's ex, was sex. The problem wasnt a lackthereof, but rather, too much. Paul's ex, treated sex, the same way a smoker treats a ciggerate. It was a substance he abused and a substance he craved daily. He wasnt a sex offender per se, but he was pretty darn close. And it made me wonder...if Paul already knew the answer, why was he still working the problem out in his head? As Paul kept blabbing on, he left me no room to excuse myself, so naturally, I pulled the cord out of the wall. I figured I would just blame it on a bad connection, cuz those excuses work, right?

On Wednesday, I was shopping with my friend Rose, who had recently formed a theory that she could save money on clothes, by dressing her old clothes with accessories. I didn't have the heart to tell her that her theory of style relativity had already been discovered, so I went along for style support.

We strolled around the mall and ended up in Aldo Shoes, where Rose admired sequined wedges and I admired this really cool rosary necklace. I was trying it on for size, when who should walk, or rather, jump into the store, but Paul, estatic to see me.

PAUL: David! Hey!
ME: Oh, hey Paul.
PAUL: What are you doing here?!
ME: I'm just browsing. You?
PAUL: I was gonna buy some shoes...what's that on your neck?
ME: Huh? Oh. Yeah, isnt it cool?
PAUL: David are you Catholic?
ME: Why?
PAUL: I cant be friends with people who are Catholic!
ME: Well, first of all, I'm not Catholic.
PAUL: Then why are you wearing a rosemary necklace?!
ME: Uh, it's called a rosary. And I'm wearing it because I think it looks cool.
PAUL: Do you know that piece of jewelery goes against everything that I believe in?!
ME: What? Fashion?
PAUL: Fuck you...
ME: What?
PAUL: You heard me.
ME: You know what? Shut up, leave me alone. Rose, I'm leaving!

As I walked out the door, Rose asked me who Paul was. I told her I didnt know, which was the truth. The guy in the shoe store wasnt the same guy I knew from the past weekend. The guy in the shoe store was someone completely different. Paul heard me answer Rose and in a loud voice, he bellowed inside the mall:

PAUL: OH! YOU DONT KNOW ME?! MUTHAFUCKA WE WENT OUT TWO TIMES! FUCKIN' COCK TEASE!

Yup. I didnt know that guy at all.

Paul's outrageous accusations confused me. Why was he ready to judge me by wearing a rosary? And why did he think that Me + rosary = Catholic fanatic? Even if I was, didnt my social experiment of going out with him, twice nonetheless, hold some kinda ground that I didnt care about what he believed in? I wondered about this last night as I was telling my friend Maria about Paul, when all of a sudden, my doorbell rang. It was Paul. Crying and begging for forgiveness.

PAUL: Fuck you, you bitch! I love you! And you dont love me!

Well Paul, I'm not sure if you know this, but I'm not gay. I was scared. Paul was banging my front door, and my friend Maria had a low, almost dead, battery, which meant, I was all alone. So I did the next best thing and called my friend Madelaine.

MADELAINE: Hello?
ME: Madelaine! Dude! Guess who's at my front door?!
MADELAINE: Who?
ME: Paul!
MADELAINE: Shut up! You're lying!
ME: No! Watch, listen!
MADELAINE: Is that the doorbell?
ME: Yes!
MADELAINE: Dude! Shut up! What is he saying?
PAUL: You're a fuckin' cock tease! You go out with me and you dont call?!
ME: Did you hear him?
MADELAINE: No! Just the doorbell!

I turned all the lights off, hoping and praying that Paul would think I wasnt at home.

PAUL: You make me crazy!

Then what was your excuse before? It wasnt that I was afraid of Paul, it's that I worried he might do something that would bring harm to himself.

PAUL: I love you! I'm sorry, but I love you!

I stood by my window, peeking through the blinds, shaking my head, as Paul ran into the middle of the street, drunk and professing his love for me. How did a drunken gay guy expect his sober straight friend to fall in love with him, after he referred to him as a "cock tease."

Paul left a half hour later, leaving both a broken bottle of Smirnoff in the middle of the street and the answer to a problem. I guess guys and girls can be friends. I guess straights and gays can be friends. The only unstable variable that wont make the equation work out is sex. Sex is the thing that complicates everything. Who knew, after all these years, that my mother, my pastor, and my nude model counselor was right. After all, wasn't it sex that complicated my relationship with my lesbian liasion, April? Wasn't the possibility of having to do sex the thing that kept me from going to San Diego with Bryan? And wasnt sex the final step in the problem that Paul needed from me to be with me? Too bad that's one equation that will never work out. And too bad I'll never find out if I truely am a cock tease.

a cinder-fella story

Once upon a time, in a fairytale storybook, all the tales were one-sided. It was the princess that got all the best perks. Think about it. Custom designed clothes and shoes, lovers with money and vast amounts of real estate, and the ability to sleep for years without aging a day. But what did the prince's get? They got wives who were lazy, wives with obsessive complusive cleaning disorders, and wives who had a history of sleeping with little men. Undoubtedly unfair. So it came as no surprise, that I was chosen to break such a tradition.

Friday night, I was contemplating on who to go out with: Corrie or Gay Guy? With Corrie, I could almost predict what kind of night we would have. With my Gay Guy, I wasn’t as sure, since I really didn’t know anything about him. Not even his name. The only thing I knew was that he was going to pick me up at seven, in front of my house.

At that moment my phone rang. It was Gay Guy, who turned out to be a guy named Paul. He was already on the road and said he’d be in my area in half an hour. Contemplating whether to go out with a guy or a girl took more time than I thought. So with a half hour to go and no fairy godmother in sight to help me out, I donned my faded DKNY jeans and my square-toed, Italian chocolate, patent leather shoes. Sure, they weren’t glass slippers, but like the hot sales girl said, they did shine.

At 7:03, in lieu of arriving via golden pumpkin and white horses, Paul arrived in a 2001 BMW E46 M3. That combination of letters and numbers said two things to me: 1) the guy obviously had good taste in cars and 2) hello, new friend!

PAUL: Hi! I'm Paul!
ME: I'm David.
PAUL: Well, David, let me just break the ice and be frank.
ME: Uh, OK...
PAUL: You have really nice eyes.
ME: Oh. Uh, thanks.
PAUL: And your shoes? I'm jealous!
ME: Oh, um...
PAUL: Am I making you nervous?
ME: No! No...it's just, well, I've never really done this before.
PAUL: Oh. Well, here. Take this.
ME: What is it?
PAUL: It's a diet supplementary with calcium. It'll calm you down.

We werent even 30 seconds into our gay date, and already Paul was judging me from head to toe. Literally. And despite offering me a diet pill, I had to admire and smile at Paul for being so honest. You had to give him props for being comfortable enough to be himself.

An hour later later we arrived at Anthony's In The Catalinas, a restaurant that boasted both a beautiful view of the Catalina Mountains and the number one place to be proposed to. Only seriously involved people dined there, so it was a little surprising that Paul chose this as a first dinner date.

Two appetizer's and a stuffed quail dinner later, I started to think of how nice it was that I was being treated out to a high-end restaurant and how good it felt that I didn’t actually have to pay for anything. But I couldn’t enjoy myself. I kept thinking that I would run into somebody I knew and I wondered what I would do or say if someone I knew approached me. Would I introduce Paul as a friend? Or as Social Experiment No. 69?

I mean, I barely knew the guy myself. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wasnt as comfortable going out with a gay guy as I thought I was. I mean, sure, I've hung out with gay friends, but everytime I did, there was always a girl in the mix, you know? And I dont know if it was a girl's pressence that made me feel more at ease or if it was just the fact I didnt know Paul and this was all just "first-time-gay-date jitters", but something on my face let Paul something was up.

As it turns out, Paul was actually facing the same concerns. He had never hung out with a straight guy, one-on-one, and was intimidated to do anything I might deem as "queer." We laughed, and wondered if it was society's approval or our friends approval that kept us from being ourselves.

PAUL: Well, you know, Tucson really isnt a gay spot. Phoenix is.
ME: Well, that makes more sense. It's more urbanized.
PAUL: Meaning?
ME: Meaning that Tucson isnt really a hip-happenin' place. And to me, I've always thought the majority of you gay guys were hip-happenin kinda guys, so Phoenix would make a better place than here, you know?
PAUL: True.
ME: Plus, if it really is a gay spot, it would probably make this dinner go a lot smoother.
PAUL: What are you doing tomorrow?

Saturday afternoon, I found myself roaming down the isles of the IKEA store in Tempe with Paul. He had convinced me that because the greater Phoenix area was more open-minded than Tucson, and the fact we were less likely to run into somebody we knew, it would be a great way to start fresh.

So there we were, in a giant warehouse, in search for the perfect desk chair. But all Paul found was disappointment. Too hard. Too red. Too square. Too tall. To Paul, none of the chairs would suffice at all. So instead we ended our quest to find the perfect chair, and proceeded to find Paul the perfect boyfriend. It was weird scoping out possible lovers for my new gay friend on gay date number two, but when you put sexual orientation aside, wasnt Paul just another person looking for love? And when you put sexual orientation aside again, wasnt Paul was just a really cool guy?

In a city where nobody knew my name, away from the judgement of friends and family, it was easier to be myself. And as myself, I felt ashamed that it took me two outings and 200 hundred miles to realize I was an ass. Why was I so concerned about what my friends and family thought? Was I that shallow? Wasn't it their loss that they chose to be small minded and have few friends?

I was about to ask Paul if he was still weirded out about everything, when I started to wonder if it was possible for two people of the same sex, with different sexual orientation, to be friends? Or was it just as hard as a guy and a girl being friends? Was I still being small-minded like the evil, wicked step-people in fairy tales? You know, the ones that refused to let the heroes and heroines from living happily ever after...

my secret inhibition

Located in the heart of downtown, is a quaint little flower shop where my friend Madelaine works. It's a great place to pick a small bouquet for a friend or to just sit and talk with a friend. Which explained why I was there Wednesday morning.

As I helped my friend Madelaine cut and arrange Snap Dragons, she conveyed to me about her latest fixation, Michael. Madelaine had known Michael since high school, but after graduation, their contact faded. Until recently, when she ran into him at Hollywood video in the horror aisle. Which is a good aisle, because an aisle where you meet the potential love of your life is a good aisle.

Except, Madelaine wasnt sure if Michael was the potential love of her life. Their conversations were slow and short, but their make out sessions were long and heavy. And despite the fact, that Michael annoyed Madelaine greatly, something about him made her smile. And something about her made Michael smile, obviously, or else he wouldnt call her every night. But was it enough to be more than just friends?

Madelaine pondered about this, as Alice, the owner of the flower shop came in and gave her two cents.

ALICE: You should go for it. Be like, "Hey! So are we gonna do this?"
ME: Totally. Make the first move.
ALICE: Yeah. I mean you wanna pursue it, right?
MADELAINE: I think. I dont know. I just dont know if he likes me like I like him. I mean, he keeps saying, "You should take me out to dinner sometime," but I dont know if he's just joking or if he's serious.
ALICE: Well, the next time he says that, just be like, "When? Where?" Don't be so inhibited.
MADELAINE: What do you mean?
ALICE: I mean, there's probably a side to you, you're not showing. Dont be afraid to show it. When you find that right person, all your inhibitions are released.

I wondered if Alice was right. Did we all have some sort of secret inhibition, waiting to be released by that special someone? And if so, what was my secret inhibition? Was it a good inhibition or a bad one? And where was that person that was supposed to let it out?

I wondered about this the next day as I went to my morning journalism class. Ms Tyler blah-ed on about how to check our writings, while I sat at my computer, checking my blog friend Lisa's comedic re-telling of "The Frog Prince," The classic fairy tale story of a frog who had a secret inhibition that was discovered once the princess kissed him. As I laughed at Lisa's modern twist, Ms. Tyler saw me and craned her neck to see what I was looking at. Unfortunately, Ms. Tyler crane-d too far back and began to fall.

She pushed her upper body foward to balance out and made a grab for me to catch herself. I saw her yellow chalk-stained hands reach out to my baby blue jacket, and I freaked at the possibilty of having to go the rest of the day with a dusty green jacket, so I leaned foward, and put myself out of Ms. Tyler's reach. Ms. Tyler lost her balance, began to lean backward, grabbed for an empty chair, and fell ass-flat on the ground. The class fell silent. Ms. Tyler sat in silence. And I was anything but silent, as I tried to cover my snicker with a cough. I realized I couldnt laugh because the class would think of me as an asshole...the asshole who let his teacher fall and then laughed. So for 20 minutes, I sat there biting my lip and coughing, waiting for class to let out.

The moment it did, I burst out laughing, and was soon greeted by my fellow classmate, Corrie, the-not-so-hot-post-it girl. She laughed with me, in disbelief that I had actually let my teacher fall. Apparently, Corrie and I both had a sick and twisted sense of humor. And then it hit me. Was my sick and twisted sense of humor my inhibiton? It surely was something I had to hide, since it wasnt really accepted by most. Like the time I was at camp and my friend got shot in the leg with a beebee gun. He cried, while I laughed for hours at his pain. It wasnt something I was particularly proud of, but I had it. And was Corrie the special someone who let it out?

As Corrie and I laughed to my next class, she suggested we hang out on Friday, and do something. Which leads me to wonder...should I pursue the person who let out my sick and twisted secret inhibition? And if so, how would my gay date take it if I canceled for tonight? I mean, it wasnt an inhibition I had, so why am I still going through with it?

a funny feeling

When you go to a small college like I do, the odds of bumping into someone that blew you off, twice, are incredibly high. The odds of bumping into her when she's with her girlfriend, well, it's not so high, as it is just plain odd.

Yesterday, I ran into my good friend Chloe. We swapped tales of our wild weekends, and it was determined, hands down, that I had suffered the most, which meant a giant double chocolate cookie was in order.

As we walked to the cafeteria, I got a funny feeling in my stomach. It was the kind of feeling you get when you know something's gonna happen, but you're not exactly sure what. And sure enough, something did happen. There was April, laughing with what I thought was a fellow female classmate. I hadnt really contemplated as to what I would do if I saw her again, much less run into her, so I turned and suggested to Chloe we go somewhere else. Of course, Chloe wanted to see the infamous April and wouldnt leave until she got a good long view of the girl. And that's when she recognized her. It was her lesbian friend Kiki, as she was affectionately known. And the fellow female classmate? Well, it wasnt just a random classmate. It was her girlfriend, as she was affectionately known.

Chloe then began to inform me that April and her girlfriend Melinda had been thinking of going steady for some time. April had considered herself to be bisexual but had never actually done anything with a guy, which explained the reason why I was a one-time thing (which, she should have said something, you know?). Chloe laughed when she realized I was April's mystery date and then asked if we really did have sex. Apparently my lesbian liaison stretched the truth, which at first made me smile, but then frown when I realized she went back to being a lesbian.

Chloe and I made our way back to the quad, as I told her my side of the date story. As Chloe laughed at my tale of woe, our friend Starr came up and Chloe wasted no time filling her in. Starr symathized with me as she shared her bad weekend dating experience.

STARR: Why cant guys and girls be friends? I talk to a guy, and automatically they think I'm interested in them and I wanna date them.
ME: Well, you are pretty.
STARR: Oh, well, thanks. But I'm serious. I cant talk to a guy without them thinking I'm looking for just more than friendship. I'm telling you...the only good guy, is a gay guy.
ME: That's not true.
STARR: Yes. It is. Think about it. You dont have to worry about whether or not your pretty because they totally boost your self esteem. All a gay guy expects is for you to be your fabulous self.
ME: That's like saying, the only good girl is a gay girl, cuz then guys dont have to impress them. They just have to be their fabulous self.
STARR: Have you ever been on a date with a lesbian?
ME: Uh, hello?!
STARR: Ok, well have you ever been on a date with a gay guy?
ME: No! Have you?
STARR: Well, you should. It's fun!

It was at that moment in time, Starr created a social experiement. Were gays better at dating than straight people? Was dating someone of the same sex easier or harder? I dont know. But what I do know is I have a date with a gay guy this Friday and Starr has a date with a gay girl, something she was only too happy to do. And I have a funny feeling that it's something she's wanted to do for a while now...