Monday, April 05, 2004
My Week in Love
Recently, through a friend, I met a girl. Cool girl: nice, good sense of humor, cute, likes to booze – all the necessary ingredients. We hung out, then started emailing, and finally at the behest (or at least the encouragement) of my friends, who had met her and had seen us interact while we were out and thought she was into me, I decided to ask her out.
I send her an email, which, in my opinion is quite charming (by the way, in keeping with my “I’m much, much better over email than in person” style, I am the best email flirter in the world – I practically invented the art form). I slip in a line saying something like, “So do you want to see a movie or do something later in the week?” between stupid jokes. I’m happy with it, and send it to her. Since up to that point we had been on a daily email basis, I expect a response that day.
At this point, I’m getting pretty down, thinking I’ve taken rejection to another level again: I don’t get rejected, I just don’t even get responded to. My roommates, god bless ‘em, are saying things like, “Maybe she’s been out sick?” or “Maybe your email is messed up?”
A response. Finally. She says something like, “This week’s been crazy, but I’ll be around this weekend.” Her responding two days later is more than enough of a signal for me, so I decide to concede defeat. I email her back and say something innocuous and obligatory about a birthday party I have to go to on Saturday night, but I have no intention of calling her about this, as I have grown more than accustomed to being rejected and can read between the lines. Game over. Fast forward to…
While throwing back some vodka red bulls and watching the basketball games, I see her name come up on my cell phone, which elicits a “Hmph” from me. She says she calling to see what’s up, and will meet me at the birthday party. I’m thinking, “Ok, I guess it’s not over.”
So my friends and I meet her and go to the birthday party, and it’s packed, so we move to a bar nearby for a few drinks. We’re talking, and of course, since I’m talking to a girl, I’m throwing money around like I’m fucking Puff Daddy, and I’m thinking things are going pretty well.
Then, this guy comes. To see her. Crap.
Not fun for me, especially since we’re approaching “I’m getting dangerously drunk and I’m afraid of what I might do to myself and others” territory. Nice enough guy, who actually went to BC (I went to Boston College), but, speaking of dealbreakers, he had two major ones:
1) He was overtly religious. He led these religious retreats at BC, which are pretty lame (Mike, if you’re reading this, you know I love you and I don’t think you’re lame, even if you did lead the same retreats). When you say, “I led Kairos retreats”, you might as well just come out and say, “I’m really not that cool.” While this guy was leading retreats, emphasizing the role of the Lord in the life of the college student, I was busy inventing new forms of drinking games with my roommates and hiring a lawyer to contest the $30,000 we got fined for damages that we inflicted upon our apartments junior and senior years.
2) He was way too into BC sports (John, if you’re reading this, you know I love you and I don’t think you’re lame, even if you send me daily emails about BC sports). I love sports, but I could not give less of a fuck about Boston College sports, just as I could not give less of a fuck about them in college. Football games at BC were an opportunity for me to get shit-canned on a Saturday afternoon, eat about twelve hot dogs, piss outside in a field, and pass out at 7pm. When we won the hockey championship my senior year, it was an excuse for me to get blackout drunk on a Tuesday, destroy most of my apartment, and miss class for the rest of the week. I can name two people who have ever played for BC: 1) Doug Flutie and 2) Who gives a shit.
Naturally, I shut down, and immediately get very depressed. I have no problem being rejected, as long it’s because a girl is choosing someone who is clearly better than me. And to be better than me is not very difficult at all – all you need is some ambition, or some class, or a nice haircut, or the presence of mind not to spit all over a girl when you talk to her, or the presence of mind not to use the word “fuck” at least thirty times in every conversation, and I will gladly step aside. But way down in my heart of hearts, below the layers of bacon, butter, and mozzarella, I didn’t think this guy had one up on me.
But still, I lose - eventually, she leaves with him, and I get even more depressed. The good thing is that by this point in the night I don’t really know where I am because I’m so fucked up, so at least that at least partially mollifies the pain. Still, it’s one of those situations where you want to go up to the girl and say, “Hey Kim, listen, I have no problem with you leaving with him, but do you think you can give me back the $30 I spent on your drinks tonight? It’s just that it’s not a really good investment for me. If you want, you can get the money from him – it really doesn’t matter to me.”
So Sunday morning I wake up: 1) “I think my brain is bleeding” hungover; 2) “Call my therapist immediately” depressed; and 3) “How the fuck did I spend $160 – I was out for three hours!” broke. In addition, I can’t move my arms or my back because my roommate Brian and I went to the gym the day before and went through Weight Training 101. I forgot that he was a Division I athlete in college (that is, until the booze and cigarettes had their way with him) and I had never lifted a weight in my life, so I tried to keep up with him – big mistake.
[Speaking of the gym, you know what’s a good idea? You should work out really hard all week, eat right, and then come home on Friday night and eat a giant bag of Tostito’s and an entire fucking can of ranch dip at 4am (while doing so, you should also get in a fight with your friend Jeremy because he’s “hogging all the dip” and keeps “breaking the fucking chips into little fucking pieces” in said dip). Then, you should come home on Saturday night and eat a pound of macaroni and cheese and a half a pound of cheese fries at 5am (5am rather than 4am because of the clock moving ahead).]
At this point, I think I am done with women. I play guitar, I speak five languages (if you count English three times), and make a ton of money. Sure, I’m covered in body hair, incapable of any real emotions (aside from lust and hunger), and my moods swing between vituperative and manic and obsequious and anemic every three minutes, but I don’t think I’m that bad.
The way I see it, I have three options: 1) I can start doing a ton of coke to eventually induce a heart attack and die alone, probably with my pants off; or 2) become a priest because I have nothing else to do and you get some pretty decent perks; or 3) become a drifter and ride the rails and explore this great land we call the USA.
But I should definitely cut my dick off, because I don’t see how it will be of any use to me or anyone else ever again (I haven’t had sex in so long I think I’m technically a virgin again). At least when it’s gone I won’t have any more nights when I come home fucked up, put on the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” at high volume and on repeat, start to cry on its third playing, and eat all the ice cream in the apartment before moving on to any other available dairy products (i.e. Kraft singles, Country Crock, half and half, etc).
I mean, fuck.
Damn it all to hell.