Love and Pokemon

My friend Mark started playing Pokemon again; I think Red--one of the originals. For everyone who missed the late 90s/early 2000s, it's a game where you start out by choosing one of three Pokemon: a Squirtle, a Charmander, or a Bulbasaur. Choose the wrong Pokemon, restart the Gameboy and play again. Ultimately, the goal is to catch all of the Pokemon and defeat all of the Masters with the best team that you can assemble. But it all falls back to that first Pokemon--even if you don't use your first choice in the final battle, you always start the game believing that you will. Most people, the naive people, always choose a Charmander. If you do it right, you end up with a Charizard. But most people don't wait around long enough for that, and even if they do, you don't know what to do with a Charizard. That's okay, too. Not everyone is meant for a Charizard and what it means to have a Charizard. You don't always have to end up with what you started with.
Pokemon is an experience that you have--you don't really think of it that way as a kid. Actually, you don't think of it that way pretty much anytime. People who say that Pokemon is an experience is the kind of person who cries at the end of The Breakfast Club and totally ruins Lost for you because they talk about how the plot was all about the relationships between everyday people. But Pokemon is an experience, particularly similar to dating. Think about it: it takes nothing to catch a Weedle.
We've all dated Weedles. Occasionally, you run across someone cool like a Growlithe or a Vulpix--fiery and interesting. You want to date a coffee barista? That's a Lapras. You know where to find one, and as zen and urbane as he or she may seem, nothing ever really changes with them. And God forbid you ever run into a Chancey because much like the game, you're completely unprepared. Chanceys come around when you're approximately 6 shots in at the bar and you're dancing alone in the corner to "We Can't Stop." You're fresh out of Masterballs, and then you spend the next five days thinking about how you totally missed your shot at a Chancey. But whether it be a Chancey or a Lapras or a Growlithe, it really doesn't matter what you have if it doesn't make sense to your game plan, your experience.
To keep from completely ruining everything you've come to love and appreciate about Pokemon, the whole notion that dating and life and Pokemon are essentially interchangeable is because all three things boil down to one thing: the anatomy of a noun. Back in first or second grade, we're taught that a noun is a person, place, or thing. The noun is essentially the most basic of the language building blocks, second to spelling the words themselves. Nouns have such a simple function that we practically forget just how important they are. Because what everything depends on, ultimately, is a person, a place, or a thing--sometimes all three.
Sitting outside of my college dorm a couple years ago, I was dealing with a break up. Like most people after a break up, you go over everything you could have done differently in your mind--each argument or cancelled plan. You think about all the things you had considered doing and that you hadn't. And then you consider all of the things you did do and whether or not you should have done them. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sometimes, you'll drive yourself crazy with the notion, and unlike the Gameboy, you can't go back and restart it. You're stuck with the Pokemon you started out with, and even though you've logged it back into the Pokedex, it doesn't mean that it's not still there.
But that's where my friend Nam found me--out perched up on the side steps of Carnegie Hall puffing on a Camel Crush or something equally disgusting. She had known what I was going through, understanding that I had chosen to move away for grad school instead of trying at whatever assimilation of a relationship that I had. She plopped down beside me and asked me for a cigarette and began to explain how everything in life works--or at least everything to do with making a relationship work. She talked about how a relationship is a special kind of noun: it requires all three noun components--the right person, the right place, and the right thing... most usually, time.

Deal. I'm going to go eat an entire pizza and
watch American Horror Story.

It's a great little litmus test, if you're being honest with yourself. People in their 20s are obsessed with being in relationships--almost as much as they are about going to brunch or being purposefully ironic. But at the end of the day, when people stop coming to your single's brunch, and your friends don't want to go ice skating with you because it might appear that y'all are gay (Side note: I still completely stand by the notion that two men can go ice skating and it's totally platonic, but whatever. Not here, Justin. Not here.), we aggressively turn our minds toward a relationship because a relationship will be the thing that will fix us. And in your 20s, if you think there's a way that will fix everything, you immediately jump at the offer. That's why so many people do P90X, let's be honest. (Side note 2: You're never going to find me doing P90X. I tried it once. That's stupid and it hurts.)
I'm not against relationships. I think they can be amazing, and ultimately, as disgusting as it sounds--life is so much more fulfilling when you have someone to share it with. But to go back to Nam's theory, it requires everything that a perfect noun entails: the right place, the right time, and most importantly the right person. The right place is usually the easiest. Unless you're just a really avid eHarmony user who searches miles and miles outside of your own city, the person you might want to date is most likely going to be around you. The place is only complicated if you've just gotten there or you're just about to leave. But overall, the place is easy.
The time kind of meshes with the place. It's all about being settled and how busy you are. Oftentimes, we underestimate just how important the time part is because we always think we're ready for the next step. Either we're bored or we're swamped or we're somewhere in between, and we convince ourselves that we're ready for whatever we might find. The eternally monogamous don't understand what the world would be like single, and the eternally single are just positive that it's time to take a turn for the more serious. But in reality, time is complicated because it's not a state that can be determined by how long you've been single or what you've done before. It's a matter of knowing when the clock inside of you is ticking at the exact right speed with the right person.
And the person is the worst part of all because it's almost entirely out of your control. Even when the clock is ticking steady in the right place, it has to be ticking in sync with the right person. And that's terrible and magical at the same time because waiting for it to work is a nightmare, but when it does, it's this thing that makes you believe in things like fate and luck. Because as frustrating as catching all of the Pokemon may seem, sometimes, you do have a Masterball when a Chancey appears. And you have room in your belt for another Pokemon, and when you throw it and watch the ball wiggle, and wiggle again, and wiggle again, sometimes it just closes and there it is--it happened. You caught it.

Lapras, the smug Pokemon equivalent to
a coffee shop barista.

So you might not end up with the first Pokemon you started with (the high school or college sweetheart) because that rarely ever happens for anyone. That's tricky, and God help you if you end up with a Venasaur, because that just means someone is hanging around and eating all your shit. In the end, all of the pieces have to match up because anything else is just forced, and you really should reconsider metaphorically restarting that Gameboy. Life is too short to go around pretending to love someone for the sake of saying you're in love. Take that time and go live. Catch a Lapras to catch a Lapras and then store it away. Go explore all the different areas that you want to explore. And in the midst of all the Pokemon references, take a little time to find yourself because even in the moments when it may seem like the right time and the right place and the right person, you have to be content with who you are, when the Gameboy is shut off and you're lying alone at night. If you can't live with who you are, no one else is going to be able to live with you either.
Nam didn't include anything about Pokemon, but I know she probably would have if she thought of it. Instead, she finished up by snuffing out the end of her cigarette on the concrete step and brought it all home by saying, "That's it. If it's not the right person, the right place, and the right time, then it's not right for you. And in the meantime, you just have to wait." Nam's not really one to tell you that it comes when you least expect it or that love is just around the corner. She's kind of brutal with the truth, and she's not one that will tell you how close you are to love. Because what if it's the wrong place? You're not going to catch a Starmie in Viridian Forest.
And you're not going to find love or a relationship until all the right pieces match up.

Murder in the Burbs

I'm living in the suburbs now, and in turn, life has become quite suburban-like. I moved in about a month ago. About two days in that I was living with all Mormons: a revelation that would catch most off guard, but I'm never one to turn down a good cultural experience... I have a whole fleet of Mormons back home, and in the case that Joseph Smith really does have it right, I would like to believe they will come to my defense. I made the Mormon discovery over delivery pizza, the most sacred of all meals. Ever since, it's been a bit of a Desperate Housewives situation, as little issues and secrets from the suburbs have bubbled to the surface between casseroles and freshly made cupcakes. It's not like anyone has been killed or anything, well, yet... but there's always room for those kind of things to happen. But, again, that's not to say that the first month hasn't been eventful or at least taken some getting used to.

Back home in Tennessee, my neighborhood was hardly suburban. Most of the scandals that occurred involved my neighbor sneaking up behind our house and shooting a turkey, which then followed with my dad physically attacking him... so on and so forth, no big deal. Our neighbors up the street had two German Shepherds named Hydro and Codone, which my dad convinced me were the names of two 70s sitcom characters. But more on them later. At my last apartment, we lived in the Arlington "hood" which, considering the overall archetype of Arlington County, is more like where most of working class America lives. There were a lot of quinceaneras that happened at the park up the road, and my roommate got his window busted in once... but we decided that was because no one in the neighborhood liked him. But the suburbs... that's uncharted territory for me. Imagine my surprise as a family biking down the street stared me down as I was rapping Holy Grail quite loudly in my parked car. In the suburbs, people expect better things out of you, namely... not singing Jay-Z songs with your windows down.
My first run-in happened just days after I moved in. I was smoking in my front yard, all Ryan Atwood-style as the local Marissa Coopers watched from their windows. I didn't think it was a big deal, until I realized that there was no where to put my cigarette butts. I would finish off one, and then lay it in the gutter so that it could... I don't know... disappear or something. Unfortunately, that didn't work. A couple days later, my roommate came to me and said, Um, I don't know if you smoke or something, but the lady next door stopped me and said that someone was smoking in our yard, and it didn't make the neighborhood look good... so I just wanted to let you know. Ostracized. I was Hester Prynn-ed right out of the neighborhood before I could even start.
But I've tried my best to fit into the mold the best that I can. Tonight for instance, we had a little dinner party on the back porch, I fixed pumpkin cupcakes, and I spent the majority of the night doing laundry and watching Pitch Perfect in the background. Everything seems so simple in this world because on the surface... it is. But as we learned from Desperate Housewives' 9 year tenure on ABC, life is not always as it seems. Before I left for Knoxville a little over two weeks ago, life was going pretty well. I'd gotten the anti-smoking neighbor off my back, and I was getting settled in to the normalcy of quaint-Arlington-life. I was dating someone. Sometimes, my roommates would sit down and watch Big Brother or some other show with me, and I had even gotten comfortable enough to whip out the ol' bottle of wine every once in a while, but when I returned... everything got more complicated. The dating was over, my friends were busy, Big Brother had ended for the season, and everything was just amiss.
My dating life, per the usual, is a bit of a sham. I was sitting at home on a Tuesday night in gym shorts and a t-shirt, watching my DVR-ed Dancing with the Stars. I was sipping on some wine, and of course as most young boys do whilst watching Dancing with the Stars, I got lonely. I turned to my tried and true method of meeting people... online dating... because it's been so very successful in the past. I sent a cutie a little message, and I put my phone down, content with myself for the valiant effort that I had made in the dating world. Because our generation is a really freaky,l nearly voyeuristic one, obsessed with knowing as much information as possible, this site tells you how far you are from one another. Originally, it said 2 miles away, but after it refreshed, it said 1 mile. I thought that was kind of strange, but sometimes the GPS is off a bit. I looked back down and it said .5 miles away... it started to feel eerie. At this point, I picked up my phone and held it, waiting to see if my interest-turned-stalker was getting any closer. After refreshing again, the distance had updated to 300 feet away--guys, that's a football field. At this point, I was convinced that my killer could see me. I wasn't sure what to do because the only thing around me to kill someone was a remote, a large potted plant, and a stack of bills. In short, I was the black guy in every slasher movie. I was the opposite of Jennifer Lopez in Enough. All I had done was send a message to someone on a dating website, and in the course of 15 minutes, I was convinced that I was staring death in the face.
The phone refreshed one more time: 17 feet. This was it. My front door opened and my roommate walked through and behind him was a familiar face. The same face that I was looking at and refreshing just seconds before. He said, "Hey man! Glad you're down here... I have a friend I want you to meet." I didn't catch a name because at that point, I started laughing... and not in the, "laugh along with me kind of way," but in the, "I'm sorry I laughed at your cat's elaborate funeral" kind of way. I introduced myself and then put together what I was wearing: white gym shorts with a hot sauce stain on them from dinner and a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. At this point, I was out of control. I was laughing to the point that I was occasionally snorting as they looked on at me like I had some kind of social disorder (which, in all honesty, I may... but that's neither here nor there). Eventually, they went upstairs and didn't come back down for the rest of the night. When I went upstairs, the door was closed and the light was off, but in all of my laughter, I didn't put together what that meant; it wasn't until the next day that I realized that I had lost my online venture before it even started. But, for now at least, I had my life.
So, there may not be any dogs down the street named after prescription pain killers, and no one has gotten their windows busted in, but that's not to say that nothing happens in the suburbs. The lease has barely started, and I'm not convinced that the woman next door isn't housing someone in her basement or something. But in the mean time, I'll just sit on the couch with my pumpkin muffins and DVR shows that I would prefer the rest of the world didn't know I watched... and when I get lonely, I'll sift through the pictures on online dating sites considering which ones are secretly dating my roommate, which ones might be available, and which ones may actually show up at my door in an attempt to kill me.

Dear Justin: The Worst Dating Advice Column Ever

This morning as I was coming into work, I noticed someone as I was walking inside--all the hormones starting raging, and like a chimpanzee, I immediately pushed my chest out, raised my head a little bit, and fixed my posture. It was like an unconscious thing, but at the moment, everything seemed so promising and exciting that I wanted to put my best foot forward. DC is full of people that are attractive, intelligent, and well-put together, so I tend to spend a lot of time acting like a metrosexual chimpanzee. Dating is complicated. If you don't find the love of your life in college, you might as well buy a cat, sharpen up on your needlepoint, and buckle down for all the Roseanne marathons your heart can handle. But there are those of us who persist on. In a metro area of nearly 6 million people, I believe that two self-centered, entitled, policy-driven individuals can still find love because, well... Bill and Hillary.
So in pursuit of my own Billary, I held the elevator door this morning for my potential mate outside, and when I say that I held the elevator, I mean I held it for like fifteen seconds practically growling at anyone else who dared to enter the elevator. Eventually, we were both in the elevator: I had done it. So, in response, I got, "Thanks for holding the door for me. You didn't have to do that (audible smile)." And then like a trashy Seth McFarlane character, I said, "Heh, you're welcome." And then I got off the elevator. I had forgotten one major part of flirting and human attraction: proper communication... actually, any communication at all. A couple of weeks ago, I asked people to send me their questions on dating, and in response, I got really vague questions in addition to really, really specific situations. I feel like I've made enough dating errors at this point that I could give all kinds of neat advice, so here goes it.

Justin, where do you meet people?
Well, I think it depends on who you are. Find the place you feel most comfortable. For some people, that's college, and if you've missed your boat, then I'm sorry about the rest of your life. For others, it's church. For some, it's bathhouses; it's really up to you. I learned a long time ago that I'm not going to meet people in bars because I'm just not a bar person. I don't have pick up lines. I do best in smaller situations, and if it's a stranger, I'm more likely to drop my scalding hot coffee on someone and talk my way into a date at a Starbucks than I would be trying to buy someone a drink at a bar.

Justin, how do you feel about online dating?
Listen, Meg Ryan, things have gotten a whole lot more complicated since You've Got Mail. I think it speaks a lot to our generation because we've stopped knowing how to communicate with people face to face. Online dating allows you to practically stalk people before meeting them, and in short, you are really drying the well of things to talk about before you meet them. I know it works for some people, and that's great. I online date sometimes, and it's hilarious. One person I talked to asked to come over, and when I said no, threatened to kill themselves, so that's cool. If you're in a bigger place, don't take the online thing too seriously because no one else really is, and be aware of where you're doing your online dating. If you're on something you have to pay for, people are probably really gunning to seal the deal. You don't buy a shirt if you don't intend on wearing it. If you're on something free like OKCupid, you probably care enough, as long as it doesn't cost you. If you're on an app like Tinder, well... you're only looking at pictures then clicking a heart or an X. I know it sounds crazy, but if it's shallow enough to only give you 2 options following looking at someone's picture, the relationship will probably reflect the outlet.

Justin, if a guys says he is paying for your date in advance, and then you offer to pay to be nice while you're actually out and he agrees, does that make him a douchebag?
Short answer: No.
Long answer: I've always had a really bad habit of offering to do things that I didn't want to in hopes of trying to be nice, and then people actually wanted me to do it. I would complain and complain, but in reality, I asked if I could, unprompted. I think something you have to learn, in all aspects of life, is that you should not offer to do something for someone unless you really want to do it. I've learned that the hard way with additional projects at work, picking people up from the airport, and offering sexual favors. Also, in terms of the whole "guy pays" thing, that gets complicated in my world. I'm a full blown feminist who believes that people are just people, so there's no obligation here. Equality for all, so... women are just as capable of paying as guys are. Towanda, ya know?

Justin, I think a guy likes me, but I can't figure it out. I've tried talking to his friends to see where he stands, but I'm still not sure.
Well, stop that, because that's just annoying. You're not trying to find an answer to your question, you're looking for a green light. If you want an answer, ask him. Pulling others into situations like this never, ever helps.

Justin, if she says she likes me, but she wants to take it slow, how slow should I take it?
Well, this is a two part question, really. According to Robin Thicke, everybody hates these blurred lines, so in essence the answer is: as slow as she says to take it. I just recently watched an episode of Parenthood (aka, the most underrated show on television), and this 17 year old guy was all, "Let's make sex!" and the girl was like, "I thought this was a picnic!?" and then they didn't have sex, and she broke up with him. I stood up and high-fived that imaginary 15 year old girl in my room and went on about my day. If you don't let time run its course, you risk a very real possibility of being a douchebag. On the other side of that, if you're someone who likes to keep a Dale Earnhardt pace in a Jeff Gordon kind of world (you're so very welcome for the heavily-biased NASCAR reference), then maybe you should reevaluate the person you're with. Just like you shouldn't expect anything too fast out of her, she should understand if you're looking for a faster pace. Neither way is the wrong way--just two equally effective ways that don't work together.

How fast is too fast to get married?
Always. Always is too fast to get married.

Justin, I met the perfect guy at a bar. He's from England and will be traveling around the US for the next three weeks. We flirt via text every day, but he's not stopping in DC again before heading back home. Should we keep in touch?
Anecdote: My roommate from college came to visit me this year. He's from Scotland. We went out to the bar, and I had five drinks, and I didn't have to pay for any of them because they were his surplus from all the drinks girls were buying him. It was a magnificent evening. Unless you're headed over to visit the royal baby, Bridget Jones, I would give him an additional three weeks and see if he contacts you... AMIRITE?

Justin, how should I treat a girl's friends that I've never met before?
Nicely.

Justin, I went to my boyfriend's (now ex-boyfriend's) house for the first time. He showed me a "poker room" with girl's bras everywhere and porn on the wall. What would you have done in the situation?
First and foremost, I would have set a reminder in my phone to put in a prayer request for him because gambling, pornography, and fornication are three of the devil's strongest tools in luring sinners to Hell. Secondly, I would have giggled because I didn't know people like that actually existed in real life. Third, I would have broken up with him, which seems to be a non-issue at this point. Lastly, I would have taken the bras back upstairs to his mom; I'm assuming that they probably belonged to her because I stand by the fact that someone who would commingle bras and porn for home decor probably did not come upon the bras in an organic way.

Justin, I just broke up with someone, but some of my stuff is still over at their place... what should I do?
A simple cost benefit analysis will answer this question pretty easily. If it were me, I would figure out in a concrete way how much I don't want to be around this person. If the items in question are important enough, you'll deal with it, no matter the issue. All it takes is going over to that place and asking for your business back. If you don't get an answer, then... that's really weird and that person has some growing up to do. In extreme cases, like if the stuff I left over there was the second or seventh seasons of Grey's Anatomy, I would bust the door down, go in spinning around with a brick in my hand to take out whomever I needed to, get my DVDs, and leave. But, I'm also a very passionate person.

Looking to stay single for a while? Send your dating and life questions to Justin at justinkirkland4@gmail.com!

Digital, Digital Get Down

My friend Alex and I were talking over a nice dose of Fro Yo the other day and reflecting on our youth. Of course, when you're coming of age, you're bound to make mistakes. Bobby, of The Brady Bunch, learned the hard way why he shouldn't play ball in the house. Frankie Muniz found out why you shouldn't kick your dog during a baseball game in My Dog Skip. And I'm not saying that my generation had it any harder than the next, but if you weren't careful, coming of age could be really, really dangerous for someone our age. As we were thinking back to what it was like growing up in the late 90s and early 2000s, I think we might have weirded ourselves out just by looking at the prospects. It was after that conversation that I decided that my children would not have access to the internet until they are least sixteen years old. Why did we not listen to NSYNC when they warned us about these "digital get downs?" Nothing safe happens online.
I had no business on the internet as a child, and if you think back, you probably didn't either. I remember when we got our first computer back in fifth grade--yes, it had CompuServe dial-up internet which allowed you to make a sandwich, walk the dog, and finish a Melville novel between page loading times, but it was the internet, and that was pretty friggin' cool back in 2000. My brother and I would take turns getting on it, and it's not like we could do too much damage because it was stationed in our parents' room. We lived in a very old single wide at the time, so even if my parents were on the other end of the house, if we had something naughty up that made noise, they could hear it without a problem. We never wanted to abuse having a computer... hell, we were just jazzed that we could play Minesweeper any time we wanted to, though neither of us having any idea to this day what that game is about, nor how to play it.
But it wasn't long until we messed everything up. We had grown tired of 50states.com, which apparently is no longer a website (sigh), so we decided to look up facts about Washington D.C. before I took my trip there with safety patrol. Casey and I gathered around the computer to look up whitehouse.com, and there it was for the world to see... naked. women. We were equal parts embarrassed, intrigued, and filled-with-sin. This friend we had known for such a short amount of time had become our enemy so quickly, and from there, it was clear that the internet was going to be the kind of friend that you just don't tell your parents about.
But the inadvertent porn via what we thought was a government website was not the problem. Alex and I decided that the problem really started once we got into middle school. Looking back, we were all over the internet in ways that we, nor our parents, really had any idea about. I remember back to my AIM days when I would sit on the computer changing my background and my layout and coming up with my screenname, and it all seemed so harmless... but then I think about all the chatrooms that I would go into and all of the "friends" that I would make on there. And when I talk to people my age about it, it really was not an uncommon thing for people to make friends and exchange screennames with people that we had no idea who they actually were. I had one friend who was 13 and lived in Ohio named Brittany, and we would ask each other all kinds of personal questions, and 12 year old me was on the other side of the computer screen throughly convinced that I had found my soulmate over the internet. In reality, there's a solid chance that I was not talking to Brittany, or possibly even a child. How we were not all captured by a man named Carl who had an affinity for Mogen David wine and My Little Pony, I will never know.

Honestly, if I were speaking with a predator, I'd probably
also ask for some M&Ms.

All of the conversations would start out the same: ASL? Just think about it for a minute--why in the hell did a 13 year old need to be telling another 13 year old his or her age/sex/location? Hi, my name is Justin, I'm 13/Boy/Knoxville, TN. Here's my address... now come grab me so that I can end up being another story told by John Walsh. We giggle at Chris Hansen because he's always doing the intercept between the pedophile and the decoy on To Catch a Predator, but I have no idea why I'm laughing and judging the idea that these kids' parents weren't paying enough attention because my parents totally let me do the same thing. And the one time that I did connect with a stranger online (on MySpace, may it rest in the shadow of Facebook), I suppose that I was lucky enough that the person I was meeting was an actual fifteen year old girl and not some strange predator because when I asked my mom to drop me off at the movies to meet her, my mom just agreed to it, like that's a normal thing. All I had to protect me was an absurdly loud voice, a twenty dollar bill, and a Nokia phone that was missing the * key and was really only useful to play Snake. I was one of the lucky few whose online ventures led to his first kiss, then friend, then girlfriend, then back to friend, now life coach... but everyone else doesn't always end up so lucky.
The problem with the internet being available to our generation is that we like to hope for the good in people, which is probably why it takes so long for us to learn lessons. Here I am, typing up a brief history of the dangers of the internet with my online dating profile open in the separate tab thinking to myself Hm. I wonder why I haven't met anyone of substance or sanity on here? Well, it's because the internet is where crazies go to hibernate. And then it's the ding of a Facebook chat, or the pong of a new message that wakes them up, and then we all go into full blown creeper mode. And it's something we learned from an early age... well, at least those of us who survived. But that's the scary thing, the chat rooms and the AIM and the time we spent searching the internet for the next weird thing to get ourselves into was just the beginning. Now we use it to keep tabs on our exes and people we don't like and to look up pictures and videos of cats doing human things. (Oh, you haven't seen Kittens Inspired by Kittens? Do it now.) I don't think that the weird dial-up noise that used to come on as the internet loaded was a lack of technology... I think it was more of a warning sign that none of us never listened to, and after some reflection, it's my very own mistakes that will keep future Kirkland children from accessing the internet until at least after puberty. Maybe longer.

Handsy on the Metro

When I was planning on moving up to DC, one of my fraternity brothers who had lived in DC before asked me what I was most excited about.

The metro. Definitely the metro.

And I mean, he tried to warn me. He told me that it would be fun at first, but that it would get old. As a recent graduate, I built it up to just be the jaded attitude of adulthood. The metro was awesome. The metro is how the cool kids go places. And you know... maybe it is. But the thing about the metro is that you have to know what you're doing; it's kind of like walking into a gay club or a drug deal. You don't go to "ya boy's boy Demetrius" and go and ask him what kind of illicit materials he has available this week. That's pretty much how the metro works. You don't go to mingle and conversate, and you don't dare mosey. You get on the metro to get shit done.

But very similar to my first drug deal and gay club experience, the metro took some getting used to, and it didn't come without it's fair share of errors. As a young resident of what some (okay, very few) have come to call "The District,"all I wanted to do was talk to people, which seems like a natural thing to do considering that back in Tennessee I have fifteen minute conversation with gas station attendants. But I quickly learned that no one wanted to talk back to me. Occasionally there would be a man with an airbrushed Obama shirt or a disheveled homeless man up for some incomprehensible rapport, but on the up and up, the metro just wasn't the place where you had conversation.
I made a series of errors on the metro in my first week that could have gotten me arrested and/or killed. Occasionally, when I would get bored, I would take pictures of myself with sleeping people to see if I could get away with it. Once when the doors were closing, I stuck my leg inside thinking that it worked like an elevator, but all that happened was that my leg was closed inside the door, like an unforgiving guillotine. Essentially, what I'm trying to say is that there is nothing fun about the metro. It's not a game, and it's not a social site. Most of all, it's not for children or people without direction.
It wasn't long until I became "one of them." I had a bonified metro pass with reloadable features, and I judged people who used paper passes. Once I descended into hell the escalator, I make eye contact with no one. People do not watch out for each other once they are underground; you are simply on your own.
Today seemed like any other day--I talked to my mom on the way to work, scanned my metro pass to get in and board, and just like every other mid-week venture, the metro was absolutely packed. I wore my colorful sweater and corduroy pants, you know, because it seemed like that kind of day, but with it, I wore my blue Chuck Taylors. I always try to wear something against the norm because DC is a boring place when it comes to fashion. People wear the same black slacks and loafers every day, so it's important to find some kind of way to stand out. The person standing fartherst from me couldn't have been more than a foot away, but the rule still applies: no looking and no conversation. The man standing directly in front of me was looking down at my shoes; it wasn't surprising to me--like I said, people don't really wear things like that to work.
But after the first stop, I could feel someone staring at me. You know the feeling... that pressing awkwardness when someone's eyes are quite obviously fixed upon you, and when I looked up the same man was staring at me. He was probably around my age, Hispanic, and a decent looking guy. I nodded at him and gave him a brief smile, then quickly turned away. But the longer I stood there, the more pressing the feeling became. He is still staring at you. You can feel it. So, I glanced back in his direction, and indeed, he was still staring. Feeling a little more energized this morning than usual, I decided to play his game.
We held each other's gaze for about fifteen seconds, and then he lifted his hand off the bar he was holding and gently put it over mine. For a second I was stunned... I mean, you don't look at people on the metro, and you definitely don't talk to people on the metro, so I can only assume that you are under no circumstance supposed to purposefully touch anyone on the metro. I glanced up at his hand, and glanced back at him, and he was still staring at me... smiling. The woman next to us looked at me, then at him, and gave us this knowing smile as if to say, I support your decision to be homosexual together. Congratulations. I did something akin to a smile/mouth stretching exercise and slowly pulled my hand down by my side. Yes, I risked the possibility of eating it on the metro, but it seemed kind of worth it to avoid this awkward situation with [this stranger/creeper/my new boyfriend].
The man immediately apologized, and I said, I mean, it's cool. I'm not bothered. Thank you. It's not a big... okay. And then I just kind of turned perpendicular to him and tried to evaluate what had just happened. Yes, a good sixty-five percent of me was really weirded out by the whole ordeal, but there was this other thirty-five percent that was oddly appreciative. People in DC, and a good number of people in my life, do not show emotion, let alone physical affection. I don't know if the guy was interested or potentially blessing my hand with some odd Hispanic ritual, but something compelled him to do it.
Because DC is DC, I'll probably never see my mysterious hand-holder ever again, but if you ever read this, I will never forget the thirty second visual exchange we shared, and the five seconds that woman thought we were a couple. And for a number of reasons, I hope that you're the only random man who ever caresses my hand on the metro. Let's be honest--it just wouldn't be the same with anyone else.

All The Pretty Girls

Today, about thirty minutes before I was supposed to go on a date, I got a text message from the girl saying that she was going to have to cancel, for an unprecedented second time... in three days. The first time that she cancelled, she said that she was too hungover from the night before to be able to meet up with me, and then after asking her on a second date, she accepted and then backed out in a frame of only 18 hours... a personal best for me. Ironically, I did not go into the thankful nature that I probably should have... as far as I know, I could have avoided a tumultuous relationship of flakiness and alcoholism. She could have been one of those girls who visits the club a little too often, which is a high possibility considering that in the week we've been texting, most of the texts have been exchanged in a drunken state. But that's not what crossed my mind. What crossed my mind is that she was trying to escape a date with me; it became all about looks and insecurity, and I was transported back to sixth grade... back to Courtney.
Courtney Everett was the first girl that I ever cared more about than her Fruit Roll-ups. She poked be in the back with a pencil during homeroom, and in the most He's Just Not That Into You kind of way, I was confident that meant that she liked me. I used to imagine, as a 12 year old, what our life would be like together in the future, and eventually I wanted to ask her out. After weeks and weeks, I mustered up the courage to ask her to be mine forever, and she told me that she didn't want a boyfriend. A week later, she was dating Jonathan Mitchell. I was devastated.
I was always kind of surprised how part of sexual education, which was more of a course in abstinence and scary pictures of chlamydia, was geared toward (a) telling girls that they were important and attractive and they should defend their bodies and (b) telling boys to not stick it in whatever is walking by. I'm not suggesting that boys should do that, but I can't tell you how many times I stood in front of the mirror as a thirteen year old, inspecting my body, evaluating my lips and nose and eyes, trying to figure out why it was that I found myself so unattractive. That insecurity is a problem that has continued forward, and even though the thought of it was one of the most emasculating things a boy could speak of, I felt like I couldn't be the only person feeling that way.  And even if I was the only guy in the world that had ever felt that way, surely the person I was inside could offset the way I felt about myself on the outside.
I held on to that thought, while realizing that attraction played a huge part in the dating world. I began to watch the attractive people I was around to try and understand how they worked and who they really were... without the skin and the hair and the facial symmetry. As we were rounding out junior year, one girl in my class began talking about the kind of people that graduated from our high school. She's pretty in that obvious kind of way. She went on to say, The problem with our community is that there are so many poor people. How can you expect them to have children that succeed, when they don't even care if they succeed themselves? I was nervous because you don't want to take on the beautiful, but I turned around and said, You know, Lindsay. You're pretty. You're probably going to marry a gorgeous guy and have gorgeous children and live in a gorgeous house... but you have an ugly heart. And your kids will hate you, and your husband will cheat on you, and while you're rich and successful, you'll be asking why you hate your life so much. She was stunned, and it was the first moment in my life that I had genuinely considered that maybe attractiveness is not what rules the world.

Flash forward six years, and I'm graduated from college and living in this brand new city and hadn't been so shaken by looks in some time. I had grown into my skin (and my weight) to some extent and had a better grasp on who I am as a person, but when you're thrown into this new world with new people, you can't help to be nervous and doubtful. It had never resurfaced me until everyone in my apartment had started this online dating stint, a venture I had been apart of for months before either of them, and then all of a sudden you feel like you're in this weird competition measuring yourself against the people you're living with. And no matter how shallow it may be, you want to win. You want to be the Regina.
One of my roommates began receiving visits to his profile and emails from the website telling him that since he has been rated so highly by so many users, he was considered one of the most attractive people on the site. Eventually, he started asking us how many profile views we had gotten, and it became evident that there was this invisible hierarchy in the apartment. I began to feel like less of a person, and all that I could see in the mirror were the blemishes--the same ones I identified at thirteen years old. In the course of a week or so, I had forgotten everything I had come to believe about intrinsic value. At best, the numbers told me that I was unattractive and undesirable. I wasn't getting those stats, so I began a new account, answering questions and inputting information from scratch.
I talked with my friend Jane, an absolutely beautiful girl, about how I had been feeling. She told me that she understood, and I couldn't help but be confused. How could someone that looks like she does ever not feel good enough? She showed me her friends, and it looked like a catalogue of Barbie and Ken dolls, each with perfect hair and the perfect feminine features and/or a jawline that could cut a diamond. I didn't know that people like that existed, and as she scanned through the pictures, I wondered who they were--is that all that they are, or is there something else inside of those people?
Today, the attractive roommate went out with a girl that I had sent a message that eventually went ignored. She resembles a Taylor Swift wannabe with the standard online dating profile interests: loves to travel, sarcastic, and really loves Bon Iver. At the end of this horrible day of rejection and dejection and all the other -ections, I was completely exhausted. I was tried of being lied to and put off and ignored by people that I had very shallowly deemed "better than me:" the girls online, my roommate, Jane's friend who I had never met. Their worth had become greater than mine just because someone else, or them in some circumstances, had decided that attractiveness meant more than personality and intrinsic value. That's not to say that an attractive person can't be a wholesome individual as well, but at the end of the day, it was me that allowed myself to feel like less of a person because I had come to value attraction more than honesty, humor, and compassion less than someone's appearance.
At the end of the conversation, he told me how much that girl and I actually had in common, and that he thought we'd get along really well. I was too mad to even consider the possibility. She ignored my message, so why even entertain the idea? And then I stepped inside my apartment and my phone buzzed because I got an email. It was the dating website, telling me that my new profile had been rated so highly by so many people that I was considered one of the most attractive people on the website... in four days. Everything kind of hit me all at once, and I was reminded of everything I had started learning way back in high school. Honestly, there's no way in four days that the website had assessed I was one of the most attractive members on the site. But once I saw that email and put the pieces together, it didn't matter... because even if you are one of the most attractive people out there, does it matter if you're missing something greater on the inside?

I Don't Know Why You Gotta Be Angry All The Time

This past week, my internship told me that I had an invitation to stay four more months if I was interested; I had done a spectacular job, and if a long-term position opened up, I would be immediately considered for it. That week started off fresh from a visit from my parents and ended with a double paycheck Friday. I had plans for the entire weekend set up, and still... with all of that good news in hand, I was told a record three times that week, Justin, I would never want to be on your bad side because when someone gets on your bad side, it's pretty obvious that they stay there.
At first, I enjoyed the summation because it made me feel like Victoria Grayson from Revenge or one of those Italian men from The Sopranos. Essentially, what I took from it is that I'm kind of a badass and garner respect from the masses. But after the third time, I began to wonder... what is it that I'm doing to people?? I looked back at my archived journals to figure out when the last time I held someone at knifepoint was, and that was way back in sophomore year of college, so it couldn't be that. Naturally, because I live in my own head, I decided to take a step back and try to think about what it is that could be making me so subtly angry.
At first I was a little perplexed as to why I could ever be perceived as a bitter person because, under most definitions, I am what the kids refer to as "living the dream." I somehow manage to pay rent every month (so far), and I have a small social circle. I'm doing well in school, and my professors think I have a witty, unique personality. What. Could. Be. Missing. When the solution isn't very evident, you start looking at the particulars. I've made a bulleted list you can scan through:

• a stronger affinity than usual for the lead pipe I carry in my car
• a spike in plays of "Somebody That I Used to Know"
• an influx of Reese's wrappers hidden throughout my apartment so that no one can find them
• an odd distaste for any movie closely related to a RomCom

After some initial WebMD searches, followed by an intensive unrelated Google search of "Where Do Broken Hearts Go," I decided that maybe I was lovesick. Lovesickness is something that people don't really like to admit to because, well, it's embarrassing and looks kind of needy. But it's not something that you should ignore because when you do that, people say that you're angry, and then you just make people less apt to fall in love with you, because that's how love works.

Apparently it's not that uncommon of an issue because, as of tonight, all three occupants of my apartment have now bastardized our personalities and dignity to create online dating profiles. Love, or the lack of it, makes you do some funny things which probably explains a lot of the weird things I've done in the past when it comes to relationships. No one can say that they're perfect, and when under the influence of hormones and the ever lingering threat of getting married while you're still in shape and proudly sporting a head full of hair, you start to have a really guilty sympathy for Amy Fisher, aka the Long Island Lolita.

I can never say that I've ever shot my lover's wife in her face, and that's something that I believe is a trait to be proud of; BUT it doesn't make me exempt from the laundry list of things I've done in the face of loneliness and desperation. The effects of lovesickness come in different forms: the direct and the indirect. As I've seen from our personal experiences at the apartment, the indirect is one of the most hilarious and/or ridiculous products involved in this process. As we've been filling out our profiles, we turn to each other in a nervous panic saying, This website asked me what I'm good at... WHAT AM I GOOD AT?!?!1?!!1 It's like we've forgotten what we do on a daily basis so we turn to basic human functions (walking places, checking the mail, buckling my seatbelt) because we've forgotten any remnant of a skill set we have. And then there's me who waits seven minutes, has no profile visits, then launches into a soliloquy about the shallow nature of humanity, and that if your profile picture isn't alluring enough, you might as well consider yourself trash. It's exhausting being self-deprecating.

This is called a Tango Corte, or as I referred to it in class,
the "kiss my ass, I'm really jaded after our relationship"
thingy.

But the redeeming quality of the indirect is that you can keep it as private as you would like; the real issue begins when you start directing those feelings in different directions. At the climax of my last relationship's downfall, I was in the same ballroom dancing class as my significant other. Ironically, we were not partners, which seemingly would make continuing in the class easier. However, the effects of lovesickness knows no bounds. I took my partner, Rachel, aside and told her, Listen. Today is the tango, and I'll explain it later, but I need us to blow this shit out of the water. And by this, I mean we need to blow them out of the water. I pointed out the couple in question and explained our mission. Rachel, being my Jennifer Grey, quickly agreed. We used our long limbs to parade around the dance floor, doing as many of the cortes (see above) as possible before our instructor told us to stop having sex on the dance floor. Was I accomplishing anything of any substantial value by completely kicking the tango's ass? No. No, I was not. But in the face of feeling kind of sad and heartbroken, sometimes it helps to believe you're doing mean things to other people. And when you look back on it, the idea of what you've done is almost comical because ninety-nine percent of the time, whatever grand scheme you had going on in your head has had no significant impact on the other person's life. You unsubscribed to your ex on Facebook? Zing. Bet that one's going to burn for at least fifteen minutes.

And sure, all of these things are easy to make fun of, pity, or maybe even demean someone for because the idea of feeling so spiteful in regard to love seems a little contradictory to the process itself. But at the end of the day, we're all just kind of human. We do stupid things in the face of potentially being alone because no matter what we may say, we like the idea of having someone in our lives. I mean, I know in my case that if someone isn't at my apartment when I get in from work, I just go and talk to the pictures on my bedroom wall until I hear someone walk through the door. We're not a species of people that are meant to live our lives alone, so you can't blame people for the weird reactions they have when they are forced to go stag for a little bit. The important part of it all is that you look at yourself at the end of the day and say, You know. I'm kind of being batshit crazy right now because if you can accept the fact that the way you're acting is totally absurd, then you at least have that in check.

Acting out and doing the weird human things we do in the face of a loveless life is what makes us who we are. Some people like to "find themselves" and do yoga or swear off of (insert gender) for (insert time period). Some people resort to online methods in hopes of ending up on an eHarmony commerical one day. Then you have people like me, who apparently uses his lack of love life as an excuse to hone in on his ability to terrify people into believing that he could kill them at a moment's notice. Whatever you do to pass the time between romances is perfectly acceptable, as long as you don't shoot anyone like Amy Fisher did. Nobody likes that kind of crazy.

Secondhand Girlfriend

As everyone knows, graduate school is for people who could not find the love of their life in undergrad. That's why it simultaneously pains me and pleasures me to see the end of my personal wedding season come to an end today... at least for a couple months. This past summer, marriage has practically become the new black, and with the possibilities that could unfold this November, my likelihood of marriage could go from potentially either gender back down to one, which would mean that for tax purposes, I would have to go back to seeing only women. Sigh, oppression.

And for any conservative Republican reading, I would like to let you know that if that does happen and the idea of gay marriage is extinguished by the reign of Romney/Ryan that my chances do not just dwindle from 100% likelihood of marriage down to 50%... no, no. It dwindles down to about 17%. And I'm here to tell you why: you see, when it comes to the dating world, I'm not the most confident person. Sure, I can be your man's man after a couple shots of tequila and something along the lines of a horse tranquilizer, but I'm not the kind of person that just randomly walks into a bar and shoots someone a line. I don't say any of the words on the following list: tits, the p-word that I won't even spell out, breastacles, rack, and the newly familiar term "hot pocket" (unless you're talking about the edible ones with chicken, in which case, yes, I will have one). Honestly, I'm more of the guy that you run into at Starbucks who spills his Pumpkin Spice Frappucino on your shirt, then incessantly offers to buy you a new wardrobe with money he doesn't have, and then somehow you connect with him over the free form jazz playing overhead that neither of us understand. Call me awkward, but after that moment... I'm a keeper.
But the problem is, I haven't been in many Starbucks lately because I'm pretty sure when I check my BB&T bank account the balance reads: three nickels, an orange piece of paper, and a two-thirds used tube of Burt's Bees, which leads me to believe that my bank knows way too much about what's in my pockets.
So instead, I'm left at the mercy of the people that I just happen to pass by. This week, in one of my graduate classes, I met a girl. She's cute and has an adorable personality, and honestly, the whole thing was a little intimidating. I haven't date a girl in years, and as soon as I brought her over to my apartment to watch a movie, I was immediately reminded why. As she was on her way over and I was desperately trying to simultaneously tuck in the couch cover and hide the duct tape penis that my roommates had made, it hit me. When I find myself legitimately interested in a girl, one of my male friends steps in, says something that automatically qualifies me as either: weird, a full blown homosexual, or sexually inept; and then moves in to claim his "territory." That could also be another downfall of mine; I've never believed any human to be territory... I'm pretty sure we extinguished that in 1863, but then again, I was an English major, not a History. But what a terrible feeling it was, hiding the silver penis with clammy hands because I knew that because of past occurrences, my fate was sealed. And in the middle of what could have been construed as a menopausal hot flash, I had another kind of flash... a flash back.
My experience with dating in high school was about as in depth as a mirage puddle in the desert. I had two girlfriends, and those "relationships" lasted about fourteen minutes. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first experiences with this friendship thievery or "lady jacking," as I come to later coin it. My freshman and sophomore years were dedicated to an on again, off again, somewhat polygamous relationship with my friend who actually got married today. Though we would just refer to it as passionate, most would probably have called it abusive on several different levels. Then, I spent the latter half of my sophomore year pining after a fellow RA who I'm pretty sure was dating another guy for the duration of that crush, which eventually led to the end of the semester, which I'm sure will be covered in a future post.

However, it was the summer after sophomore year that I fell for this tiny, petite blonde with giant blue eyes. If you will travel back to 1982 with me for a moment, I'm pretty sure that Michael Jackson would have referred to her as a PYT (Pretty Young Thang). And as interested as this tenderoni (last Michael Jackson reference, I promise) seemed to be in me, it all fell apart that she, my friend John, and me went night swimming. The night seemed to be a blast, and I was confident that I was making stellar progress on the flirting front, but then again, I always think I'm making good progress when it comes to flirting. I have the same problem when I play Mario Kart; I always think I'm winning until I glance around and notice that everyone is waiting on me to finish lap 2 so that I will be disqualified and move on to the next race. I had told John how much I liked her, and like most of my guy friends, he promised me that he would play wing man and totally get me the hook up. I never really wanted the "hook up" because if I learned anything in 7th grade sex ed, it was that when you have sex with someone, you're having sex with everyone they've ever slept with as well. As a twenty-two year old, that statement only reinforces my absolute fear of germs which may also explain why I've avoided traditional intercourse like the plague.
After night swimming was over, John offered to take Caitlin back to their dorm because it was so late, and that he'd see me tomorrow. Such a rookie error. John had left his phone in my car that night, so when I went driving the next day, I didn't notice it until the phone lit up... a text from Caitlin. "John, I'm so sorry for what happened the night before. I'm so embarrassed. We can't tell Justin." Luckily, Taylor Swift was playing in the background: something hateful and determined to keep me focused on driving instead of pulling a u-turn to drive through their dorm. And it wasn't soon after that my ex-girlfriend called me to ask if I had heard that John was caught have sex in the bathroom of Gibson last night.
However, while I may not be good at getting the girl or solidifying any kind of flirty moment, I am exceptionally skilled at exploiting these moments to their full potential. I picked John up later that day to give him his phone back, and I waited until he was buckled in. I wanted us to be on the highway; I wanted to make sure that even if he jumped out of the car that he would have some serious road burn to show for it. I turned to him and said, "So when were you going to tell me that you and Caitlin had sex in the bathroom?" He was frozen and with no place to go.
It was one of my weaker performances because I wasn't used to one of my friends taking someone I was interested in and doing the sex with them. But, as I joined a fraternity, I became much more well-versed in the politics of flirting, dating, and having sexual intercourse in the bathroom. Soon, it became sport to me, with my strongest showing being at a fraternity party when I announced that two people had just got done having sex upstairs. Our freshman year, we were instructed to find our vocation: the thing that made us happiest in the world. I assume that thing was supposed to be tied to some kind of monetary income, but alas, I had found mine elsewhere: exploiting and humiliating people that had sex with people I was interested in. Eventually, I would return the finishing punch to John my senior year by comparing the passed out girl on his bed to a "sitting rabbit that a hunter would never shoot" until she came to and ran out of his room. Then, I would go and make out with someone else in another room in the apartment (see A Series of Brief Apologies to College Flings).
Sadly, the first story went awry anyway as the girl I invited over has a boyfriend, so like most cases with me and girls, I will assume the role of her brother/gay best friend/super cool guy friend, which is completely okay because I excel in those roles anyway. It is refreshing to know that with the very small number of people I've met in the DC Metro area, there really is much less personal competition in my life. However, the gay population is much higher up here, so when it comes to men, I guess I'll have to keep my dukes up. But as a romantic contender, I like to believe that I have grown as a fighter and a flirter. There are no rules in adult world; it's no holds barred. Pat Benatar said it best, Love is a battlefield. Oh, Pat... you're too insightful for your own good.

A Series of Brief Apologies to College Flings

As I have struggled in the past with legitimate apologies, this is an exercise in admitting and letting go.

So, I apologize that I insisted that we make out even though Craig was asleep in the floor next to us. I'm also sorry that I called you in the middle of a movie because I wanted to make out. I'm sure that it was completely tactless to phone you at a time when getting phoned is strictly prohibited, but I had an agenda, and it just seemed to me that calling you was the most valid option. I'm even more sorry that in trying to save social decorum that I allowed Craig to come in and watch that movie with us. I think we both knew that neither of us was interested in that movie, and considering how fast he fell asleep in the floor, he probably wasn't either. So much wasted time. So tactless.

For you, I'm sorry about Cinco de Mayo. That was really awkward wasn't it? I had my eye on you all night, and you seemed like you wanted nothing to do with me. Then our friends kept matching us up together, even if it was out of malice and boredom, but I thought it was really great! Then you got mad and left, and I explained that I just thought you were super attractive and that I wanted to kiss you. So then we made out for a little bit, and that was cool. I'm sorry that I jumped in that pool after you, mostly because I scraped up my knees pretty badly that night; someone should have told me the pool was three feet deep. I'm sorry you deleted me off Facebook in a record seven hours after the initial making out. I'm sorry that I didn't know you had a boyfriend, and I'm even more sorry that your boyfriend decided to confront me about the whole issue the night before graduation. Talk about walking into that one blind.

And to you, I'm sorry that you somehow misconstrued that pop kiss as the full blown sexual assault that you seemed to tell everyone else about. I suppose I should have seen it coming, considering that ginger mane that went relatively unkempt for most of the time that we hung out. Furthermore, I am more sorry that I had to find out that you not only told my peers, but my professor, which I just recently found out about when I had dinner with him. I apologize that he didn't like you too much, either. And lastly, I apologize for the first time that you have sex because I imagine that it will be a terrorist level red assault on your personal psyche.

For you, I'm really, really sorry that I fell asleep. Seriously, if there's one apology that might garner some kind of sincerity throughout this entire thing, it's yours. I suppose I was just tired or something, but I just passed out there, didn't I? I know that one day, we'll probably laugh about all of this, probably me sooner than you, but at the end of the day, I think we can both agree that it's probably more of a slight against my character than it is yours. If you remember, during season two of Grey's Anatomy, Cristina fell asleep when she was making sweet love to Dr. Preston Burke, and they ended up getting married! ...um, kind of. They were going to get married, then Burke left and that fantastic Ingrid Michaelson song played, and, well... maybe that wasn't the best comparison.

You were a really fantastic individual, and I came to the conclusion early that I was "the guy who won't get no love from you" or better known as a scrub to Destiny's Child, but in the moments that we were... um... intimate... I was always reconfused when you would invite me on dates with you and your boyfriend. But because I was more in love than a passionate Barbara Streisand song, I played along because that was more fun than watching more episodes of Ghost Whisperer on Friday nights. And they weren't all bad; remember that one time we all went to the club and I ended up making out with someone from Newport on the dance floor? That was pretty neat!  I'm sorry that you invited your boyfriend everywhere, and I'm sorry that he was kind of rotund. I'm not hating against rotund people; I myself was quite rotund at one point in my life.

To you, I'm sorry I started crying like that. It was a really emotional time, and I don't want to talk about it. Just know I'm super sorry.

I'm sorry that I never wanted to be in a relationship. Like, seriously. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I spent a year apologizing for that, and I suppose I'm sorry that preempted that super awkward make out sesh with an episode of Glee. It seems like TV plays a really big role in my life, and it was at that point when Glee was really motivational, and it all seemed like the right thing to do. Sometimes I think back on that evening, and I wonder if I misled you with the promise of a simple Glee episode in nothing more, but then there was the chemistry and the seemingly surface level commonalities, and one thing led to another. I apologize for not being a cuddler; I was as surprised as you. Being as emotional as I am, I really thought I would be more into that, but it really just made me sleepy, and I like sleeping by myself. But most of all, I'm sorry that you made me get rid of that Love and Other Drugs poster. I really liked Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal.

Even though we were never a fling, I'm really sorry for all those awkward advances on spring break. I'm even more sorry that you thought that bringing a six pack of Smirnoff Ice Grape was an acceptable choice for an alcoholic beverage. I'm even, even more sorry that you demonstrated what you could do with a Smirnoff Ice bottle in front of the entire room. I'm sorry that I didn't stop you from going on a walk with Hayden, and I apologize that it took so long to find you... however, let me explain. There was some guy on the steps that night, and I had to pick him up and carry him to his room because if I didn't, he was going to have the worst neck cramp in the world the next day. I'm also sorry that you were able to identify Ralph Lauren pants so well; what an embarrassing skill to have.

What a Perfectly Unsatisfying Moment

As I'm on my trek back home, sitting on the MegaBus once again, I keep listening to an alternating duo between "Greyhound Bound for Nowhere" and "California King Bed" because you have the whole I'm on a bus and I'm traveling between here and there and I'm so interesting thing going on, and surely, there's some kind of hidden melodramatic moment in all of that. But, like most of the moments in my life that I purposefully try to make into a big deal, it's not. There's this woman in front of me with an airbrushed shirt that says Deonna in stereotypical airbrush cursive handwriting, and then in a surprise turn of events, Chris Metts is sitting behind me, and right when I get into super melodramatic mode, I have to re-convince my dad that the Indian woman that keeps glancing back at us is A) not going to blow up the bus, B) probably wearing a red jewel because she's Hindu, and that they have a pretty okay record when it comes to not blowing up buses, C) probably confused because she's never seen a mustache that size before. By the time I get settled back in to have my melodramatic moment, the time is gone or I'm just too tired to try again. You can imagine my frustration.
I shouldn't be surprised because I had to come to terms a long time ago that the world isn't nearly as eventful and emotional as I would like it to be, and when you try to make these moments happen yourself, it's kind of more of a wreck than it would have been before. Regardless, I make it a point to at least try. And in a way, what are we without those moments? Sure, none of them have ever worked out, but in a way, that's the beauty of it... trying to live up to what we believe is perfect in our mind. That's what happened this past Valentine's Day... and on spring break... and with my first girlfriend... maybe this happens too often.
In my first relationship, we didn't have nearly enough in common to be in a relationship; actually, there wasn't much holding us together beside the fact that we both loved to make out. So that's what we did. We made out and we argued, and that was that. So as part of our ritual, we were making out on the trampoline one day, as sixteen year olds do, and we started getting into an argument. I can't remember what it was about, but it was something absolutely pointless, I'm sure. She stormed off the trampoline, and I followed behind, trying to make the situation better when it hit me. This could be a moment. She started up the steps of my back porch that my dad had built. Apparently, when we built the porch, he didn't choose treated lumber. The difference between treated and untreated lumber is that if it's treated, it protects the integrity of the wood. The boards were beginning to warp after time, so some boards stuck up farther than the rest. My plan was to kiss her. Just kiss her mid-sentence. It would be perfect, so as I went in for the kiss right in the middle of her saying something, my foot caught a board. I knew it was all out of my hands, as my body starting falling forward. My headed collided with her chin, and if I remember correctly, that was one of just a very few times I ever heard her cuss. Moment gone. It seemed like the right idea at the time because I had seen it in movies and read about it in romance novels, but there was something terribly difficult when it came to executing it.
But it was nothing in comparison to the disaster that was this past Valentine's Day. I had never been involved with someone on Valentine's Day, and regardless of who you are, you want to be involved with someone on Valentine's Day. The closest I had previously gotten to something romantic on Valentine's Day was splitting a heart shaped pizza from Domino's with Kasi our freshman year. At the end of the evening, we watched Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, drank Bloody Mary's in my room, and smelled like garlic. So even in the ruins of a doomed relationship, I was determined. The night before, we had stood on the steps of the library and decided that things were falling apart. We were nearly broken up, when we were interrupted by practically the sixth or seventh person walking up to say hello when I was jarred with the obvious: Valentine's Day is tomorrow. Don't screw this opportunity up. There's a moment to be had here. So I prolonged the break up, promising that we would continue to try, and at the time, it seemed totally feasible.

There's the actual dinner in discussion, in all its trendy
Instagram glory.

The next day, I skipped all my classes and went to the grocery store to buy mushrooms and green beans and chicken. I would make the perfect Valentine's Day dinner, and it would be enough to turn everything around. If I believe one thing about this world, it's that food has the ability to make everything better. That's why we bring casseroles to funerals. As I was making the dinner, shuffling between the filling for the stuffed mushrooms and the breading for the chicken, my friend Bridget asked me, Why are you doing this? And it was obvious: because Valentine's Day is supposed to be special. And it wasn't until after dinner that I heard I'm not a big fan of chicken, and I hate mushrooms that it hit me. I had wasted a bunch of time trying to make a perfect moment when I could have just let some kind of perfect moment come to me. Soon after, I found myself sitting in my room, toying back and forth between throwing a half eaten chicken breast and two stuffed mushrooms away. My theory was: I mean, I've kissed this person, so there's really no shame in... yeah. I ate it. But my second theory, and arguably more important, theory was: if a moment is supposed to be perfect, maybe you shouldn't have to work so hard for it. Working hard is for goals. Working hard is watching Silent Hill when you absolutely know that you hate video games, and thus, will most likely hate the movie equally as much. Working hard is for the long-term, whether or not it will eventually work in the end... not for simple moments.
And after I finished the abandoned chicken breast and mushrooms and then starting eating mashed potatoes straight from the pot, I started thinking about Bridget. Bridget, like me, seems to try way too hard to make things work. Also like me, Bridget is great at giving advice but terrible at taking it herself. But that night, as I spooned the bottom of the pot for what I'm sure finished off at least a pound of mashed potatoes in my stomach, her words hit me again: Why are you doing this? And it applied to a lot of things. Why was I trying to make this train wreck work? Why did I even make this dinner? Why are you a 22 year old man sitting in his kitchen eating mashed potatoes out of a pot originally intended for two? And most importantly... how in the hell did you learn to make mashed potatoes taste so delicious?
And at the end of the night, I sat at my desk and stared at the window overlooking Maryville for a long time and decided that there's not really time to try and create these perfect moments (unless you're on a nine hour bus ride, then you can do whatever the hell you want) because if they're supposed to be perfect, wouldn't it make sense that they would be perfectly random? Also, understanding that is half the battle... knowing that to an extent, we're totally not in control of our lives, or at least the things that involve us and other people. That's why going and seeing The Vow with Bridget and announcing that Whitney Houston had died to the Walgreens cashier was more of a romantic date than the well thought out dinner on Valentine's Day. And if you can't go through the streets, candidly informing people of the death of pop's arguably most talented voice with your significant other, then what kind of moments do you really have to live for?

Not on Thesis Thursday

Every senior at my college is expected to complete a senior thesis. Most of the time, these projects are dreaded and feared for the three years leading up to it; for me, it was kind of like waiting on Christmas for way too long. I knew that my thesis experience would be magical, and it was. I had chosen the perfect advisor and later the perfect topic. I dedicated nearly an entire semester to writing six chapters of a novel, and there was no better circumstance that I could have. It was magical, with moments of absolute perversion and deception. All of my thesis meetings were on Friday, so I had the ritual of "Thesis Thursday."
I've had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder my entire life, and not the kind where "you have to have your pencil and paper straight on your desk." I'm talking, look into corners and count to eleven, and if you didn't do it in the correct order, you have to figure out some way to redo it before the person you're talking to thinks you're having an epileptic seizure. Part of that means that my routine is important, and it comes with a certain level of superstition. When I was little, if I didn't check the door four times, my mom was going to die in a car wreck. Even now, if I don't feel my away around the entire steering wheel, I imagine that I'll never get married. It's a horrible life, but ever so often, it can be helpful. On Thesis Thursday, I would have one Reeses, two bottle cherry Cokes, seven cigarettes throughout the night, and if I repeated that schedule every Thursday and wrote my ass off, then I would end up with an exemplary thesis. I'm sure that sounds petty, but if there was one award that I cared about in college, it was gaining exemplary thesis status.
The routine was all that more important on duty nights. As an RA in Carnegie, duty forbids you from leaving the building, let alone campus. If any part of my night was forsaken, the routine was thrown. I did everything in my power to ensure that my part of the deal was held up, and for nearly every night of my year long thesis process, it worked... so, imagine my surprise when my routine was foiled at the hand of... you (insert devious face akin to something you would see on a telenovela).

Scene: standard night of thesis writing, dimly lit room
Time: approximately 2:00am
Characters: me, roommate, roommate's girlfriend... thing.

I've never been the jealous type; I don't covet what other people have because most of the time, if I want something, I find a way to obtain it on my own terms. So, it never bothered me that my roommate was so persistent in having his girlfriend stay over. I didn't even mind occasionally hearing them have sexual intercourse. I was focused on my thesis. My characters. The plot. Sure, I found the groans and moans to be, at best, distracting, but you have your "screamers," as the kids put it, and your "WASPs." I was not one to judge on how vocal you should or should not be during some routine premarital sex. As I was rounding the two in the morning mark, I had realized that I had exhausted four cigarettes, the Reeses, but not a single cherry Coke. This was my boost or my Pokemon level up, if you will. I needed my cherry Coke like a boy needs a good southern girl, or air, or something else. Finish the simile to your liking, because even now, I can't seem to focus at the thought of opening up that 1970s model refrigerator to see NO CHERRY COKES. I began looking around the room, as if someone would be standing there empty handed. Nothing.
So, I walked into my roommates room, and there him and her lay. On his futon. At the foot of the futon, a garbage can containing two empty 20 ounce cherry Coke bottles. I stood over their bodies, my thoughts immoral. I was enraged, and though I'm going to clear up any sadistic suspicion of murder or assault, I can't say my thoughts were far from that extreme. I leaned over, whispering, Not on Thesis Thursday, bitches. I retreated back to my room, unable to leave for any more cherry Cokes. It was determined by the OCD gods: no exemplary thesis for me. Law had sequestered me there, because any more action than that eerie whisper would inevitably call for legal action... learned that the hard way sophomore year with an impromptu order of protection, but I digress.
I knew that I had to focus because my advisor expected pages, and in such a frazzled state, I hadn't come close to meeting my quota. Two hours later, most of that dedicated to Facebook, I returned back to the kitchen so that I could get into our bathroom. I opened the door, and there they stood: naked as a newborn. I had obviously caught them post-coital, or possibly on the way to bring shame and disgust to our shower. The gang was all there: penis, boobs, vagina. It was all that I could handle when I burst out, surely waking the rooms above and below me, Are you kidding me?! On Thesis Thursday?! They stood there, blankly, waiting on me to lunge forward or use my crafty RA powers to document them, but all I could do was go to my natural state. I held one finger out, waved it up and down their naked, unkempt bodies, and said, You need to fix this. Now. and I slammed the door.
The whole night was a disaster, I smoked at least nine cigarettes that night, didn't have a single cherry Coke, and I'm pretty sure I ate the remnants of a hamburger someone had left in the dormitory's lobby. I was a mess, so it was no surprise that I walked into my advisor's office the next day with an agenda: accept absolutely no fault for my lack of product. I opened her door and said, We have some things to talk about. I have four pages for you this week. My roommate had sex with his girlfriend all over the place last night, and he gave her my thesis Cokes. I'm sorry. As I continued to tell the story, all she could do was cover her mouth and listen. At the end of my rant, she took a sip of her coffee and sweetly said, We all have off weeks; it's really okay. I'm sorry, too. I don't think there was much more to be said. How can you punish someone who has obviously been deprived of not only two invaluable working necessities, but also his visual innocence?
I would go on to get an exemplary thesis; most people would say that this would disprove my theory that my OCD tendencies must be upheld for good things to happen, but to that, I have a retort. I think that those OCD gods, wherever and whomever they may be, looked down upon me that night and saw that I was in much deeper than I ever anticipated I would be. They pardoned me, kind of like a judge or lame duck Presidents, in the face of something much more grotesque and complicated than not upholding my compulsions. I will always be grateful for that, and I'm sure that if anyone learned anything that night, it was to always respect the sanctity of another man's carbonated beverages.