I Took Your Hair Gel, Bro

Today was hard, guys. I knew it was going to be a Monday--like, Monday was going to come at me like a large white woman yearning for a Furby on Black Friday circa 1998. Admittedly, I wasn't prepared. I wanted to believe that it was going to be okay, but it all came crashing down around noon o'clock. My roommate texted me to let me know that the estimate for his Lexus that I backed into was going to be approximately 2 to 3 million dollars. Fortunately, our insurance is about to run out or doesn't cover white on white damage or is just really terrible, so there was this big question of "am I going to be paying for the 500 dollar deductible that I can't afford, or will I be paying the 2 to 3 million dollar damage that I... still can't afford?" The past weekend was long and this news was not how I wanted to start out my week, so I pulled my signature 23 year old man move: I cried in the bathroom. Twice.
I returned to my desk defeated, pre-reminscing over times where I had money in my bank account when I saw it: this New Yorker article from David Sedaris. He talked about his sister's suicide and the impact it had on his family over the past six months or so. David Sedaris' writing is always funny, but now all of a sudden, the guy I usually look to for laughs was making me reflect on my own life. Maybe I couldn't afford life right now, and maybe I wouldn't be able to pay rent, but it wasn't this. At least everyone was alive--at least I was alive. We all have these issues that come up in our lives--these moments that make us just kind of want to give up, and we selfishly forget what other people may be facing. I don't know what to do in my situation, but at least I have my life and my pseudo-health, and a roof over my head (for now). But most of all, thank God I have my hair gel. It's not something that all of us can say.
Tragedies like death and loss of hair gel can take a while to recover from, so I've kept this story concealed for a while, close to my heart, where the worst of tragedies should remain. Upon moving to DC, or "The District," I know that I tried my best to just be friends with everyone. I didn't know anyone, and I couldn't afford to make an enemy. So essentially, if I got invited to a party I went. There was too much at stake to lose. So one night, my roommates and I went over to some kind of theme party. Ultimately, it was a whole bunch of young professionals trying to encompass the ideal of what it means to be a young professionals. In reality, we all just really like cheap wine, and we didn't know what to do at a social gathering without playing a drinking game. After a little while, we had given up on the yo-pro lifestyle and we were all just back to junior year of college, slapping cups off table and drinking wine out of the bottle (okay, I was drinking wine out of the bottle. so what. who cares).
The night was growing sillier and sillier, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of gossip: one of my favorite things to find myself in the middle of. Our party's host had arguably drank way more than she should have, and the guy who lived next door had as well. They had disappeared into the night (or his apartment, whatever), and a small section of the party was just abuzz about it. His roommate, a spritely young fellow with particularly manicured hair, seemed most concerned, "I know I should step in and say something, but I don't want to be a cockblock." Cockblock: the bro-iest of bro terms. As a Brother of a fraternity for three years in college, I was no stranger to the bro terms, nor was I a stranger to being the guy who inevitably was the "cockblock" for the greater good. I immediately volunteered because I care about women's rights and walking in on other people having sexy time is particularly hilarious.
We formulated a plan: I would go use the bathroom because the one in the partypartment was taken. Flawless. I knew it wouldn't take much work to stop the activity because they hadn't been in there for very long. There was no way they were in mid-coitus yet, and even if they were, I would just do what my dad did when two of our dogs got "caught up" while reproducing: pour warm water on them until it loosened up. And yes, dogs DO get "caught up" sometimes. It's a thing: watch here. Anyway, they were just making out on the couch, so I pulled the classic Justin move and said, "Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I'm so embarrassed. I'm going to go to the bathroom!" I stepped into the bathroom and gave them the appropriate amount of time to separate. In that thirty seconds, I got bored. I was wearing a big black hoodie that night (#Justice4Trayvon), and because I was such a good citizen, I felt like I deserved a prize. I decided to heist some hair gel that I saw on the counter... Garnier Fructis to be exact. Nothing too fancy--your standard mid-shelf styling product, apparently designed for surfers, though there's no legitimate waves anywhere near Washington D.C. I didn't think what I had done was a big deal, and yes, I bragged about it a little because, well, wine. But I was wrong. Just like that, I had spat on the alter of bro culture. I had stolen the hair gel, the paste if you will, and in the process... stolen a piece of the same spritely bro who I originally was helping out.
A couple of days went by before news had hit. But, as we all know, you can't thieve hair gel/paste without it eventually bubbling to the surface. The next week, the party's host revealed to me that she had tattled: bro knows. And bro was pissed. I wasn't sure when I would see him again, so I assumed the fire would eventually die. Sometimes, I forget when someone screws me over like ten minutes after it happened, but I was so wrong. A couple weeks later, he deleted me from Facebook, and when he decided to have a birthday bash, he invited all of my friends except for me. Nothing felt okay anymore, and I had never been purposefully not invited to a party. People loved having me at parties, and it's not like I stole a television or anything. I mean, if it would fit in my hoodie pocket, maybe, but that's an absurd thought. A television would obviously not fit in my hoodie pocket. Regardless, I found no legitimate reason to not go to the party, so... I invited myself. I'm from the South though, and if I learned anything about etiquette, you never go to a party without a gift. A couple hours before the rager/soiree, I decided to go to CVS and buy some, you guessed it, Garnier Fructis. I wanted to use the mid-grade paste to patch up the split ends of what was once a respectable acquaintanceship. I wanted to be loved again.
Once we got to the party, I noticed that he avoided me. I heard through the grapevine he never wanted to see my face again, which... I repeat, is over a canister of hair gel. But I've always had naturally tame, luscious hair, so maybe I'm just really underselling the importance of hair care products. Finally, I had him cornered. The only thing he could hit me with was his fists, a bag of Goldfish, and a half empty bowl of stale Tostitos (I knew they were stale because I singlehandedly ate the rest of the chips in the bowl). I nervously approached him and said, "Hey, so, I know that you know that I know that you know about me taking your hair gel. I had a lot of wine, and that was a really bad mistake, soooo... I brought you this." I brought the hair gel around from my back like a proud second grader presenting some macaroni art to his mother. He said, "Oh cool," took the hair gel, tossed it on the table, and walked away. Not cool, bro. Not cool. Throughout the rest of the night, I drank Milwaukee's Best from a keg, ate stale chips, and called it a day. I had lost the social struggle, and when I lose, I stress eat.
Unfortunately, I never salvaged what we kind of once had, you know, when we were at parties with mutual friends. Sometimes my friends bring it up to me, and I get really defensive about it and talk about how it wasn't even that great. Sometimes his friends bring it up to him, and apparently he reference how I didn't even get the right brand to repay him with. As my boss sometimes tells me, the devil's in the details. Damn it. But in the end, these moments are learning moments: the losing of a sibling means that you should appreciate your family and show them love every single day without a pause. The hitting the car... pay attention more often, particularly at the end of your driveway. The stealing of the hair gel? Be conscious of your decisions whether you're tipsy or sober.

As for having your hair gel stolen? I guess that means you need to hide your shit, bro.

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.

Contraband.

We all thought it was going to be thrown away, and by we, I mean Andrew and I. We never thought it would turn into... this. On a nightly combination McDonalds/Target/Seven-Eleven run, we came across it: a giant brown something sitting on the side of the road. Like most things sitting on the side of the road, we assumed it was free. So in the middle of the night, we meandered across the street, lifted the large wardrobe off the ground and hauled it into our apartment. Done and done. It was supposed to end there, but it didn't. It had only begun.
Proudly, we sat it inside of the apartment, taking in all that it had to offer. The slightly lopsided door, the obscure coat hanger inside, the used tissue neatly stuffed in the corner, and the small baggy that very possibly once had cocaine stored inside of it. Sure, it wasn't the nicest thing in the world, but it was ours. It was our somewhat infectious, possibly diseased bureau. We carried it around, placing it in multiple locations deciding that something so reminiscent of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe obviously belonged in the living room. It wasn't until the next day when I was leaving for work that I noticed a man outside that apartment cleaning the rest of the furniture that we had deemed "unworthy" of our living space. This man was obviously not giving this bureau away... he was just cleaning all the old hankies and dime bags out of it. I ran back into the apartment to tell Andrew what was going on and all that he could say, with a spaced out look on his face was Contraband. What had we done? Once upon a time, we were just these grad students going to one of the most prestigious universities in the country and then, we had become this form of Jada Pinkett and Queen Latifah in Set it Off. He didn't look the same to me. Andrew had assumed this look about him... this F--- the man kind of face, and I knew that I wasn't living with the same person anymore. I mean, shoot... I guess that I wasn't the same person anymore either.
The days dragged on, and we did what we could to ignore our wrong doings, but it was no use. It was haunting us... an uncleaned reminder of our sins just lying there in the middle of the room like a dead body or a leopard print snuggie: something you couldn't miss if you wanted to. We had learned to live with it, no matter how shameful we had become, but it all came to a head when Ray, the Comcast guy came. Ray, upon entering our apartment, announced, F---, how big is this place? This shit is nice. We obviously realized that we had entered into a life of thug-like company. Ray inspected our apartment, dropping words that should never come out of a Comcast man's mouth. When faced with the challenge of actually connecting our cable, he became weary. He didn't want to drill into the wall and asked us to get the apartment manager. When directed toward his office, I realized where exactly the apartment manager lived... at the homesite of the contraband. I ran back into the apartment and immediately enlisted Andrew's help in moving the stolen good elsewhere. We agreed on our roommate's room that hadn't moved in yet. An excellently developed plan if I had ever heard one. As I pushed it down the hallway, I began to reevaluate: who had I become? Would I even recognize this hoodlum if I looked at him in the mirror?
Soon, our apartment was full of people: some woman named Janet, her unnamed Hispanic friend, our apartment manager George, and Ray. After some initial confusion about the drilling, the healthy conversation turned into a trilingual death match: some odd combination of ebonics, slurred English, and Spanish. Andrew and I had no idea what was going on, and the last thing Ray said before leaving was This shit is shady, and when shit gets shady, I get out. A good life philosophy if I've ever heard one. I stood in the doorway, one leg propped behind the other as George announced to himself Surely, there's a cable hook up. Peter, the guy who lived here before was Asian... and he had all them Asian channels, and I know that shit doesn't come through on basic cable. I wondered to myself if this is what city life is like. Maybe, somewhere along the way, we had made the transformation. We were no longer wholesome boys from Tennessee and Wisconsin. We were hood rats, and we liked doing hood rat stuff with our friends, like that little boy who stole the car on YouTube. We had become just like Latarian; just boys caught in the magic of what the big city could have been, had we not been so foolish to get wrapped up in theft, which would inevitably lead to robbery, gang violence, and homemade tattoos.
As I finish this, Andrew is dropping some gangsta remix of "Just the Two of Us," and I know he's changed; I suppose we all have, and I remember the vague memory of who I used to be so long ago... or a week... whatever. And as I'm washing the dishes tonight and reaching behind the feta cheese to get one last glass of Sauvignon Blanc before I got to bed tonight, I'll remember the time I had a chance to be a productive member of society. It changes too fast; I'm sorry Momma.