Rainbortion (Part 2: Proposing Marriage To Strangers 101)

Proposing Marriage to Strangers 101

Like most Introductory Courses, we begin with a thesis statement. By the end of this course, I expect you will be able to walk up to someone you barely know and tell them you love them. You will fall in love with a laugh, the way he makes eye contact with a squirrel and doesn't even break it when he rests his hands on the small of your back, the way she makes the word "fuck" have three syllables. You will learn to say "I love you" before you know your betrothed's name. You will learn to actually be in love before, and despite, all those wonderful imperfections that lead to annoyance, arguments, divorce, and, ultimately love. You will realize that while "no" means "no", "you're crazy" means "not yet, but soon".

Syllabus

Week One, Forgetting the Complications of Previous Love Experience: During this class we will discuss why none of your past relationships were actually love. We will tear pages out of your photo albums, and smash all your When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, The English Patient, and all those other nonsensical "love" DVDs.

Week Two, Determining Your Type, Then Overcoming It: We will discuss your fetishes, and why they're wrong. You will learn to forget about hair styles and skin types and how much money people make, and learn to only follow the exquisite twist of stomach and the tingle of hair.

Week Three, Dropping Pick Up Lines in Favor of Honesty: This is not a week to fuck with the professor. Listen, learn. Pick up lines only work on prissies and prostitutes.

Week Four, Field Trip to End All Field Trips: Bring a lunch or money to buy a lunch. You'll all be blindfolded and dropped off at various parts of the city. The weather will be ideal for love. It may be snowing, or sunny, or raining cats and locusts. Whatever it will be will be perfect. You won't know where you are. You will be lost and dizzy. This is what love feels like. While you're pondering this (s)he will catch your ears, your eyes, your nose, your arms. You won't need a diploma. The only degrees you'll get are from the fever. Class difuckensmissed.

***

It's 8:00, and I'm in a bar. As usual. What's unusual is that I'm waiting for someone specific. I know his name, what he looks like, how he smells. I already know that he's often funny in person, that his voice, while not precisely soothing, won't send me running out to the pharmacy for earplugs. I'm prepared.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I'm a mess. My fingernails are chewed off, my bottom lip bears the indentation of my front teeth, and I've run my fingers through my hair so many times, clumps are falling out. God, I can't go bald on my first real date in...this millennium.

After the third Southern Comfort and Coke, I check my watch. I'm not wearing a watch. I never wear a watch. "What time is it?" I ask the bartender with laryngitis. She points to the massive clock on the wall behind her. It's 9:04. Both my date and my friends who offered to act as moral support (and to keep me from going home with him on our first date) are over an hour late. And I'm, if not already drunk, getting there.

The women next to me have spent forty-five minutes talking about Harry Potter, about friends who have also read Harry Potter, and about shunning one of their mutual exes because he hasn't read Harry Potter. I am about thirty seconds away from throwing my ice at them, and yelling It's a children's book. What the hell is wrong with you? when I see my date walk by the window, dressed in khakis and a blazer. I am wearing blue jeans and a Transformers t-shirt.

"Oh my God!" Ben says when I step outside. "I love the Transformers. I'm writing a webcomic about their sordid sexual proclivities. Oh," he puts his Galouises in his mouth, and shakes my hand, "sorry I'm late. We had this call from a woman claiming to be her daughter, and it was so" I think he's talking about his work, but my mind keeps looping the phrase Where's Celeste? over and over. If my support network doesn't show up, I'm liable to go home with him before we even order drinks. Well, before he even orders drinks.

"Adam!" someone shouts from across the street. It's thank God Celeste. She's with her boyfriend, Trick, and...I don't remember her friend's name. I think it's Steve. Most of her friends are named Steve. There's Steve the Bassist, Steve the Drummer, Anarchist Steve, Socialist Steve, Starbuck's Steve, Steve Jackson, Irish Steve, and THE Steve. I know this isn't THE Steve, but apart from that, I don't have a clue. He might not even be a Steve. "Sorry, I'm late." She says. "You remember Steve, right?"

"Of course." I say. "And this is my friend, Ben. Ben, Steve. Steve, Ben. Ben, Trick. Trick, Ben. Celeste, Ben. Ben, Celeste." Introductions make me dizzy.

Somebody Steve shakes his dreadlocks. "Adam and I were almost roommates." Oh, that Steve. "But I ended up getting my own place. It's much easier."

"Well that's not very socialist of you." I say. Celeste, Trick, and Steve all laugh.

"Steve is a socialist." Celeste explains. Ben laughs. Politely.

When we are all back inside, Ben takes off his blazer, revealing a wife beater. Now we look like a unit. Socialist Steve in his black jeans and Misfits hoodie, Celeste in her pink bunny shirt and skirt made of ties, Trick in jeans and a navy blue t-shirt, me, and Ben. If the waitress hadn't seen me sitting at the bar for an hour and a half, we could have been a group of scenesters coming from an all ages emo show. Something free. I can tell, as she takes our drink order, that she's calculating how much we're likely to tip her.

Socialist Steve orders an obscure lager that I've never heard of. Celeste gets a hard cider. Trick gets a Guinness. Ben asks about a good ale. I forgo the Southern Comfort and Cokes for a Midori Sour. When the waitress puts it down in front of me, a couple of minutes later, Ben says "That's the gayest drink I've ever seen."

Celeste asks "Where's the umbrella?"

And then Ben is bullet point talking at us. Celeste throwing in the occasional story which may or may not have anything to do with whatever it is Ben is talking about. Talk talk talk talk talk, meandering story, talk talk talk talk talk, meandering story, talk talk talk talk talk, Socialist Steve makes a dry remark about his beer, meandering story, talk talk "Mind if I try some?" Ben asks, reaching for my drink.

"Not at all. Here."

He takes a large sip from my straw, swishes it like wine, and swallows. "Too fruity."

In those two words, he's summed up the reason why I've fallen out of crush with every fag I've known since I started whoring dating.

When the food has been digested, and the check has been paid, the five of us head outside. Celeste gives me the Is It Okay For Us To Leave You Two Alone Eyebrow. I reply with the It Is Nod.

And we're alone.

"I don't think Steve paid enough to cover tip." Ben says.

"I don't think he paid enough to cover his beer." I say. "I put in five extra bucks."

"Me, too." He says.

"Stupid socialists."

There's about ten seconds of comfortable silence, and then Ben's tongue turns Gatling gun again. "You know the French are so mad about the way George Bush is ruining this country, that they're refusing to export Galouises here, which means I'm either going to have to quit smoking or find another brand. It sucks because I just started smoking Galouises a few months ago because my mom used to smoke them in high school and they're incredibly smooth, and I just really like them. I don't think I can go back to Marlboro Lites. It seems like every time I like something, it instantly disappears, like there's some vast fucken conspiracy against me. Well, bring it on Universe, I can take it, I can find another brand of cigarettes that I'll like even better. And"

And I should kiss him. That might just be the one thing that stops his nervous babbling. But I don't. And I don't care to analyze why.

"and I totally had fun and everything, and it was really nice to be on a date with someone who wasn't just trying to get into my pants on the first date or anything. Like my last exboyfriend, who's totally HIV positive. I'm not, by the way, I've been tested recently, and we haven't had sex in over a year. But he is, and I think I want to ask him to marry me, because then I can just marry him and do the whole 'til death do us part thing, and know that it won't be that far away. Though, honestly, I'll probably marry the first guy who asks me to."

And before I can stop myself, the words "Will you..." leap off my tongue, and cartwheel over the tightrope of desperation that serves as the only common thread between us. I can't marry Ben, I don't even know his last name. "Will you―really?"

***

"You didn't." Celeste says, when I relay the story to her later. "That's soooooo lame."

"I did."

"What about Dmitri?" She asks.

"What about him? I'm not going to wait for some confused gay guy in Chicago who has had the same boyfriend since he was fourteen. That's slow suicide."

"But he's a med student." Celeste says. "Wouldn't your mom be thrilled if you were marrying a nice, rich doctor?"

"Sure." I say. "If I were a woman." When my mother calls to ask how I'm doing, she always asks Do you have a new boyfriend or, her voice swells with hope, girlfriend? "I think she'd be content with me marrying a hair dresser, as long as the hair dresser has a vagina."

She rolls her eyes. "So, the proposal thing. You only proposed..."

"I didn't propose. I very nearly proposed."

"Wev, dude. You only very nearly proposed because you were drunk, right?"

"I guess."

"How many drinks did you have?"

I tap the tips of my fingers. "I lost count at four." The problem with mixed drinks is the problem with boys: the fruitier they are, the easier they go down, and eventually you lose track of how many you swallow. Not that either Ben or I did any going down or swallowing on the night I nearly almost proposed.

***

"Will I really what?" Ben asks.

"Marry the first guy who proposes."

And I wait for him to ask if that's a proposal, or if I'm kidding, or for him to say anything to end this awkward, depressing silence. "I don't know." He says, taking the last drag off his last cigarette. "Depends on the guy, I guess."

"Well, I'd hope so." And I throw in a fake laugh, that I hope sounds sincere.

"I should go." He says. "I don't want to miss the last train."

And I almost detain him just a long enough so we end up going back to my place to share either a great fuck, a huge mistake, or both. But I don't.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/135181.html

Rainbortion (Part 1: Bad Homo, Stop Thinking With Your Dick)

I have been between boyfriends now for more years than I can count on one hand. I wish this was a reference to the longest threesome in the world, but it's not. I haven't dated anyone this millennium. I've only been seriously interested in about four people. I've been amusedly interested in about a quarter million people.

There are certain types of people I could find attractive than I would never date: married or already dating men, serial killers, Clay Aiken fans, roommates, ex-gays, slam poets. In the seven years I've been actively slamming, I've been attracted to several poets, but never even considered dating one. Fucking one, maybe, but even that has repercussions. Do I really want a poet with an asterisk in their name reading poems about the size of my cock? Do I really want to spend a year making every audience member uncomfortable as I graphically detail the way asterisk poet squeals when I slide my---No. Nobody wants to hear that (well, ok, maybe you sickos, but not a slam audience). So, I don't fuck or date poets. Never have. Sure, I slept with Steggy at least a dozen times, but we were both fully clothed and trapped in either hotel rooms, or other poets' guest bedrooms.

I don't fuck roommates because I've had enough drama with roommates as it is. And who wants to wake up with an eviction notice and a sword hovering over your midsection, your hot Gay roommate saying "It's either you or your cock. One of you needs to leave this house as soon as possible and never come back."? Maybe Steggy, but he'd just be role playing.

I don't fuck Clay Aiken fans because they have terrible taste in "music" and garish taste in performance art.

Serial killers just don't return my calls.

Married or dating men? No thanks. I prefer to alienate people with my personality, not adultery.

Dmitri and his boyfriend are coming into town in a few days to check out colleges. No, this is not the beginning of a "what should I do, he's dating, and I'm interested" blah blah blah post. He's dating someone, I'm over it. I'm just really grateful he's coming to town because I'm in a quandary.

I'm attracted to a slam poet. Not just any slam poet, a TERRIBLY BAD slam poet. And, it's worse. Not only is his writing mundane, he's incredibly annoying. He talks constantly about things he apparently knows nothing about. He refers to Livejournal as "leej". He treats being a part of an online community as real life, telling me about comments he made to some woman who tried to get into some snobby ratings community he's a part of. He's slept with and been dumped by asterisk boy, and both have them have spent hours explaining why things didn't work out: because terribly bad slam poet is annoying. Some "fat, annoying kid" hit on him at a show, and HE GAVE HIM HIS NUMBER. He then played me the depressingly passive-aggressive voicemails that the "fat, annoying kid" left on his cellphone. All this, and I've only hung out with him once! Clearly, I should start avoiding him, fling rubber bands and Corona Light (which is the most redundantly named beer ever, and he drinks it) bottles at him when he takes the stage. I mean, the obvious solution is to stay as far away from his as possible. So I invited him to dinner tonight.

Will someone please kill me? At the very least, point at me in the streets and say "Bad homo, stop thinking with your dick!"?

Dmitri? Cheerio? Celeste? (On second thought, Celeste and Sir Trick are joining me on my not-date tonight, so I'd probably benefit from her NOT shouting "Bad homo, stop thinking with your dick" during the meal. Though it would amuse my favorite bartender. Oh, and Theryk is NOT NOT NOT allowed to shout this from the mic next time he hosts the open.)

I desperately need someone's help. I just have this horrendous fear that he will be so annoying tonight that I'll have no choice but to take him home with me.

On Microwaves And Pidgin

Whoever started the stereotype that firemen were hot, certainly didn't live in any neighborhood I've lived in. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather have a troop of non-attractive, competent firemen than Zoolanders with large hoses. These firemen were Rescue Me firemen, which makes sense, the show takes place in Boston, I live in Boston. Still, having Dennis Leary rush into our house, then come back out and say "Your smoke detector has low batteries, everything is fine." is a very anticlimactic result to a morning fire. And, what the fuck, what kind of smoke detector is designed to go off loudly and set off the other alarms in the house when it's low on batteries? Wouldn't a simple occasional beep be sufficient? Maybe the lights could go out or something?

With tragedy averted, Dale duct taped his broken car window and drove to work. I got dressed and headed to the coffeehouse to hang out with Celeste. Poor Celeste was still stuck in New York, where she had apparently been punched in the face while waiting for the Chinatown bus, because...well because the Chinatown bus sucks, never shows up when it's scheduled, and, according to yesterday's newspaper, has a tendency to go up in flames every other month or so. Suddenly, fifteen bucks to get from Boston to NYC isn't looking so hot good. I'd rather spend the extra ten bucks to go Greyhound, and live through the experience unscathed.

Because Celeste was not there, I volunteered to work her shift, even though I haven't so much as looked at a cup of coffee in two months. Apart from a few of the regulars asking me where I'd been, the shift was largely uneventful, until the last hour.

I was pouring out the coffee of the day (Mango Duck Chutney) when I noticed someone at the counter.

"?b-l-u-e-b-e-r-r-y m-u-f-f-in?"

"of-course ?want this? ?want that?"

"that ?busy day?"

"not yes-not no ?coffee?"

And I suddenly realized I was signing to a stranger. A stranger had walked up to my counter and, without any introduction, begun speaking with me in pidgin sign language.

"no coffee thanks"

"?how you know I sign?" I asked.

"you fingerspell and" (mimes pouring) "coffee same time"

Right, I do have a tendency to fingerspell when I'm daydreaming. I wasn't aware you could notice that across a crowded room, though.

"William!" Did someone step on a bird with strep throat? No, it's just some obnoxious woman yelling at.... Who is she yelling at? "WILL-YUM" She's coming right at me. Ohhhhh.

"?name w-i-l-l-i-a-m?" I asked.

His eyes conveyed the question "Are you psychic?" while his fingers remained motionless.

"someone yell at you"

William turned around. "?what?" Then he signed something I couldn't see.

"Don't sign to me." She said. "I don't have a clue what you're saying."

"I thought we were supposed to sign to each other as much as possible so we could get fluent faster." His voice is...flawless. Deep, rich, and...not at all the voice of someone who can't hear their own voice.

"I don't have time for this." She says. "Do you have my muffin?"

"Yes." He says, holding up the bag.

"Is it hot?"

"No." I say.

She bristles that I have addressed her. She clearly wasn't asking for my input. "Well, heat it up then."

"I can't." I say. "No microwave or oven."

"Why not?" She asks.

William turns around and starts watching my lips. He definitely can't hear. I'm guessing, based on their conversation and his incredibly precise voice, that he only recently lost his hearing. And, that this cunt is his mother. "We're a coffeehouse, not a restaurant, per se. We just sell muffins, biscotti, and cookies."

"So buy a microwave to heat up muffins for people."

Twat. "We don't have room for a microwave. Plus, in the year I've worked here" this is a complete lie, I worked there for all of three or four months "you're the first person who ever asked to have their muffin heated."

"Well now I don't want it. So you just lost a customer. Maybe you should rethink your position on microwaves. Let's go William."

Yes, bitch. The $1.50 we just lost because you don't want a muffin will make me rush over to Best Buy RIGHT NOW to buy a microwave. Clearly, you win.

William looks like he just sat in water. "sorry" he says to me "mom" Then he turns away, pauses, turns back and says "see-ya"

"later" I reply.

"?later?"

"l-a-t-e-r"

"William!" Cunty McFucker shouts. "Let's go."

And because I have lost my tact when it comes to this woman, I look straight at her and say "He can't hear you, lady, he's deaf."

William's eyes telescope large.

"sorry" I sign.

"same" And his laugh sends me in orbit around the coffeehouse. I may never touch the ground again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/134546.html

Odd Jobs

Every morning, on my way to the hospital, I find the hottest guy on the bus and try to picture how Interesting our life will be when he realizes that I'm his soul mate. Usually, there's a body part to fixate on: eyes, hair, the back of their head.

Today's obsession was all eyes and fauxhawk until he folded his copy of The Metro, revealing a bright-green (eye accentuating) t-shirt that read "Future Fry Cook". This suits him probably more than he'd like to admit. But is this his long-term career path or do his shirts and jobs change by the season?

If this sort of honesty through t-shirt slogan catches on, I can finally land myself a blue shirted "Future Doctor" or better yet, a black shirted "Living Off Multi-Billion Dollar Inheritance".

I see myself flipping through my closet, filled with "Recovering Bartender", "Former Loss Prevention Agent", "Jester-Suited Fudge Maker Eventually Embarrassed Into Finding Real Job". I would keep the pretentious "Occasionally Makes Money Off Writing" in the back, with the stonewashed denim suit and the Kurt Cobain flannel.

Future Fry Cook clears his throat when he notices that I'm staring at him. I blink my eyes twice and redirect my imagination out the window.

At work, I tell Celeste a revised version of my fantasy: "An entire closet of patchwork t-shirts reading "Odd Jobber".

"What about 'Marginally Employed Barrista Approaching Thirty'? Or 'Whore With Crippling Emotional Distance'?"

"Laugh It Up 'Flakey Artist Who Pours Coffee Near Hospital'."

This will never catch on. I'd rather wear a shirt that had pictures of all the ugly guys I've slept with. At least then I'll be able to point out that it's all stuff from my past, not my future. No, really, someday I will be a famous novelist. I'm not a "Future Waiter", I'm a "Former Waiter".

I'm in the middle of coming up with a color scheme for my line of "Future Job Wear" when a guy with the most beautiful eyes in the world approaches the counter. He is the fourth person with "the most beautiful eyes in the world" that I've seen today.

I'm convinced that he's about to tell me how hot I look in the black hat I've been wearing to hide the fact that I didn't have time to wash my hair this morning, but what he actually says is "I'd like a hot black Colombian with lots of head."

Me, too. Oh, wait, he means the coffee.

I've really got to find a new job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/111443.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 5: Why I Missed The Dance)

Just because a guy wears a hot pink shirt and leather pants, doesn't mean he sucks cock. But in this case, it was a pretty good indicator.

It's a Thursday night in Boston, which means Campus Gay Night at Club Manray, so odds are that the three hot guys in the outrageously Gay outfits do, in fact, suck a little cock now and again.

"I call the one with the long hair." Clitty says, as we carry our pizza over to a booth at HiFi.

"Given." I say, trying to decide which of the other two I'd rather molest. Actually, I probably won't be molesting anyone. Knowing me as well as I do, I'm pretty sure I'll just watch them out of my peripheral vision as they grab their French Fries and take off for Manray. But they don't leave with their French Fries. They sit down. NEXT TO ME and Clitty.

Clitty, being her remarkably socially obtrusive self, starts a conversation about blah blah bah, who cares, I'm not listening to her, I'm focused on them. Pink Shirt talks about why he likes Manray, how cool he is, and other things that make me happy that Clitty has called dibs on him. "I mean, I don't know what you call it when you like a bunch of chicks, but only one at a time---"

"Serial monogamy." I offer.

"Yea. That's totally what I am, a serial monogolist. But right now there's this girl I'm kind of seeing, but she's going to Maine right, and then like, we're gonna break off for three months, and then we'll see what happens."

"That's so wrong." Says the moderately cute guy in the mesh shirt and eyeliner. "If you love someone..." he drones on and on about love and society and other things that only someone completely awful in bed can care about.

The third one, the blond guy in the hoody, just sits back and takes it all in, occasionally smiling to himself. I decide he's the one I should obsess about, which means he's probably straight.

Eyeliner drolls on "...I mean I have my social security card, my birth certificate, and my worker's ID card, I just can't afford to get my Driver's License yet. They'll let me in, though right. I mean it's not like I want to drink. I'm twenty. I just want to see what happens there. We drove all the way from Cranberry Lake."

"Whereabouts in Cranberry Lake?" I ask. And he describes roughly the neighborhood I lived in about six years ago. And they're all in their early twenties. It occurs to me, I was probably their camp counselor ten years ago.

"We should invite them back to my house for a few drinks." Clitty says while Pink Shirt and Eyeliner argue about "their band" and Hoody suppresses a smirk.

I mouth no, and prepare to leave.

This is why I always miss the exciting nightclub life. There's always a reason: I'm too old, I'm too tired, my hair's too long, I'm not in the right mood. Even when Dmitri was in town, I was actively coming up with reasons not to go dancing with him when a legitimate reason fell in my lap like burning hot spaghetti sauce: Celeste.

I had told all my important friends: Clitty, Cali, Zuzu, and Celeste, that Dmitri was coming into town. Cali had offered to take me to meet him (which she failed to do), Zuzu had agreed to meet us at the aquarium (which she failed to do), Clitty said she'd hang out with us on Newbury Street (which she did, but she was late), and Celeste suggested we go to The Good Time Emporium, the local Chuck E. Cheese for adults. I'd been really clear with all my friends that I wanted my nights free to spend quality time with Dmitri. And, no, that didn't necessarily mean sex, just that I didn't want to spend one of the three nights he was in town doing anything that wasn't Dmitricentric. These were his nights in Boston.

Unfortunately, a week or so earlier, I had helped Celeste film an animation project, and we hadn't quite finished. When she asked when we could finish it, I said "Before Dmitri comes to town, or after he leaves." So, of course, the only night she could get equipment was the first night of Dmitri's visit. The night we were guest listed at a club that wasn't Manray. Guest listed. Guest listed. I'd be stupid not to go out clubbing with a hot gay that I was crushing on when we were on a fucken guest list.

So I'm stupid.

Celeste and her friend that Landlord dubbed Goth Girl, showed up at 7ish. Dmitri was supposed to meet a friend at the Dyke Coffeehouse at 8. He offered to walk while we started the animation project, but I was all kinds of pissy, and didn't feel like making him walk. I had given up a night of dancing with him to shoot this video, Goth Girl could damn well drive him to the coffeehouse. On our way, we picked up some vodka so that Dmitri could "ready himself" for his first time ever at a Gay dance club. Then we got lost. I mean Lost. It's really simple to get from my house to the coffeehouse. I'd walked it at least a half dozen times, but I'd never driven it, and with all the one way streets in Boston, we somehow managed to overshoot the coffeehouse by several miles.

Now, I should explain, this was THE THIRD TIME we'd been lost since Dmitri showed up. Somehow, I managed to find the abandoned warehouse/art gallery easily, despite never having been there before. But the Aquarium, where I used to be a member, completely eluded me. Coming out of the gallery, we walked back to the T, and I asked a cab driver how to get there. He pointed vaguely into the distance and Dmitri and I began walking that way. The completely wrong fucken way. We were, in fact, on the wrong side of Boston Harbor. Asshole cab drivers and how much I hated my friends became my favorite topics for the rest of the week. I don't remember the second time we got lost because I was probably still talking about the first time.

Once we realized we'd overshot the coffeehouse, Dmitri called his friend to tell her he'd be late. This was fine, as she was also running late. He took a swig of some Skyy, I tried to be comforting, he exited the car, and Celeste, Goth Girl, and I drove back to my place.

I should point out here, that I didn't really know Goth Girl. For all I know she's a wonderful person who was just having a bad night, but I do know that the two of us were not feeling much love for each other that night. I was quietly fuming over missing the dance club, but wanting to be a good friend to Celeste, and Goth Girl was angry because I don't drive in Boston, so my directions are from a walker's perspective. When walking, one is completely oblivious to one way streets. I told her a block in advance that we should take a left at the next Dunkin Donuts. Unfortunately, neither of us saw said Dunkin Donuts until she was speeding by it. The next four lefts were one way streets going the wrong way.

When we get back to the house, we were being polite in a way that underscored how much we really weren't liking each other. We filmed for what felt like days. On the way out, Celeste referenced a dingleberry, and instead of just saying "Penguin Lust", I let it get under my skin. I assumed she was pissed at me, or she wouldn't have brought him up.

Fine, I gave up a chance to dance with my cute crush on his first night in town so I could exchange catty digs with a friend that I was doing a favor for.

I went back to my room to pout, when I realized something very troubling. I couldn't find Dmitri's phone number. Dmitri was out at a club in an unfamiliar city with some chick he met over Livejournal. I had no way to contact him, and if he lost his cell phone or had some sort of weird emergency, he had no way to contact me. I was mid-freak out when the phone rang. "Hey Safey, it's Celeste, did I leave the videotape there?" She did not. If we spent all that time filming and being snippy with each other and she'd lost the tape, I was going to go to Church and take communion just so I could once again renounce God and embrace Agnosticism. She ended up finding the tape. God was spared my re-rejection. For the moment.

I turned on Adult Swim and resumed pacing. If I stopped moving, I'd fall asleep. If I fell asleep, and missed Dmitri's call (assuming he had my number), he'd never find his way back to the house. I am the worst host ever. I hate my friends. I hate my irresponsibility. I hate Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I hate that it's past two o'clock in the morning and I don't know where Dmitri is. I hate that I just shifted from past to present tense. But that's how focused on self-evaluation I was, time shot everywhere around me. Every tiny little failure in my life, not the monumental life changing ones, the stupid shit, was bopping around my head. Fuck. Dmitri's family didn't even know he was in Boston. If he was kidnapped, gang raped and murdered by a bunch of drag queens, what would I do? I didn't know his family or his friends, what, was I going to leave a comment in his boyfriend's Livejournal: "Hi, you don't know me, but your boyfriend was kind of staying at my house the other night, and he was gang raped and murdered while he was out at a club. Ummm...do you want me to mail you his iPod?"

I stared at the phone, willing it to ring.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/113811.html