The Birthday Weekend Wrap-up .

The Good: Got notice that I received a scholarship for my third year. It isn't much, but every bit helps. Struck up a gchat conversation with my current crush, The Wee One. I was a bit drunk when I did it, but it was so early in the day that it would have been garish for her to assume as much. The Wee One is 28 - which doesn't help me. But she's also really tiny, so, I don't know if that helps or not, but it seems like it should. I have at least 6 inches on her, so if you gives me 2 inches for every year, we're about even. No phone calls or bodily fluids have been exchanged - just a few rounds of repartee. She is clever that one. I also got the Ego Stroke of the Month on the 4th at a friend's bbq. I think at least three of the pretty babies were digging my shit. Of course, I played the awkward shy guy, because well, it felt natural. Anyways, my shit was dug, which was a great independence-day-pick-me-up from the pile of crap that was the 3rd.

The Bad: My actual birthday was a shitshow. I was miserable all day. I couldn't stop thinking about how much shit I don't have together right now, how lonely I consistently am and how unaccomplished I really am. The workday was a flood of realizations of what a bad friend I regularly am. I was mopey as hell because so many people didn't remember my birthday, yet I remember almost no one's birthday, let alone message the people facebook reminds are having birthdays. I never call anyone or do anything thoughtful for them, and I rarely let my friends know how much I care about them, which begs the question whether I actually do, yet another shitty thing to think about. Law school has been an incredibly selfish experience in a lot of respects, and it goes without saying that that is really lame.

Anyways, after beating myself up all day about what a terrible fucking person I am, I made another brilliant decision: I allowed myself to be talked into going to a local watering hole instead of sitting at home all night drinking Black Velvet, playing FIFA '06, and listening to Get Up Kids records. After the friends had bought a few rounds, things start to get hazy. I vaguely remember beginning to sob uncontrollably at my barstool. I was later told that I was pretty good for a second about keeping it discreet. But crying in a bar can only go unnoticed for so long I suppose. I was "carried home" and unceremoniously dumped onto my bed with a cup full of water and a bottle of Bayer on my table, which was a strange scene to wake up to because I usually get too far in the bag to remember to lay out such luxuries by myself. I'm coping with 25 - but I really don't like it.

And dwarfing all my petty concerns about growing up and getting my shit together, my friend's mother passed away over the weekend, and just thinking about what she's going through right now makes me want to cry and drink at the same time and the only problem is deciding which to do first. I didn't know her mother, I think I only met her once. But the idea that someone I know, like, and respect is having to deal with what I am certain is one of the worst experiences someone can go through makes my heart ache and serves as a reminder as to just how silly and inane most of my grievances with life are. Gah.

The Ugly: I shaved my beard. And on the morning of the 5th, I woke up on the living room couch, TV on, and two bags of Jack in the Box sitting in front of me: one empty, the other not.

The Hammer Falleth + Ego Boost of the Week.

So it finally came, a phone call from my mom or dad regarding a situation most would not discuss in polite company. It was my dad who fell upon the unseemly scene: "I found a couple of used condoms in the back of your truck."

Yup.

The last time I was home and visiting friends and family and had access to my vehicle, I fell into an opportunity to use condoms and the only viable venue happened to be under the canopy in the back of my pickup truck. Not totally proud to be reduced to trying to wet-hump a bird on the side of a public street, not totally embarrassed about it either though. However, what is embarrassing is forgetting to clean up the evidence before heading out-of-state back to school, thus leaving your truck in the sole possession of your parents, who happen to be caring enough to occasionally wash and do maintenance on the truck.

Some part of me knew it was only a matter of time before they fell upon the rubs. It has been a year though, so I thought maybe I could slide by until the next time I visited, whereupon I could finally clean up the shit and avoid the potentially awkward phone call. Nope. Not so much. I'm glad it was my Dad though, he can appreciate the humor in the situation. My mother probably would have wanted to know the name and phone number of the girl in case I some day disappear and she can have the number of someone I might be associating with for an evening. She's a worrier like that.

In a somewhat related story, a friend of mine let me crash at her place last Friday, and nothing really happened besides drunkenly passing out whilst cuddling and watching The Sweetest Thing. It was pleasant. The next day was an all-day street-festival bender which involved meeting up with this bird's friend. So we're going along, beer-in-cup in hand, when my friend releases a line that simultaneously makes me look a bit scummy and makes my head more difficult to get through doors: "So, should I be offended that you've hooked up with half of law school and you didn't make a move on me last night?" Okay, so I tried playing it down verbally, you know, that whole "modesty" deal, but it was tough as shit to wipe the smile off my face.

Third Day at Work.

So I finished summarizing a depo this morning and am now revising the memo I completed yesterday about waiting time penalties and yada yada yada.

More importantly, I had an inkling of this yesterday, but confirmed it today, even the receptionist at this little office is packing a rockin' bod. No matter where my future takes me in relation to this firm, the least I should do is stay in touch if for no other reason than to make sure I have close access to all the babes this guy hires.

Bossman won't be in until 2. Once I finish revising this memo, I'm not sure what the hell I'll be doing.

Side note: A man wearing a v-neck t-shirt tends to prove that he is more likely than not a turd. That is all.

The Beginning of the New.

School ended. 2 years down. Job starts tomorrow. Unpaid. That sucks. On Union Square. That's cool. California legalized gay marriage. That's awesome. The rest of the country will probably take a while to follow suit. That is not awesome. Beat the shit out of my liver this weekend with old friends. Old friends were cool, the beaten liver sucks. Broke the no-sex-streak. Only took 11 months. Hopefully the next streak doesn't last as long. Boring entry. This sucks. Dexter is cool though. Later.

Sexin'!

"I got this icebox where my heart used to be." ~ Omari I. Grandberry

So it has been roughly 10.5 months since the last time I had sex. A 'dry-spell' would be polite.

I don't want to sound too pathetic. It's not that I haven't been without opportunity. But I do believe I've swung back toward my ole pre-'05 ways and am now affected with the idea that sex needs to be more than just fucking. If I wanted to be fucking, I could be fucking. I have officially had a relapse into concerns about "trust" and "emotional investment." Yea, I know, I feel weak just saying it.

Lately, I get drunk and maybe I end up necking with a bird. Maybe she plays with my junk, maybe she doesn't. But all the times it has gotten to the point where I get asked whether I "have a condom" or not, even if I do, I find a way of deflecting the idea and passing out. Passing out is easy when you only ever fool around with birds while well over the legal limit.

I'm seriously thinking about pushing it the extra 1.5 months to make it one year. It wouldn't be too hard as it would only involve, barring unforeseen circumstances, not having sex with the birds I'm pretty sure I could have had sex with a long time ago if I had gone along with the standard script. I think I could pull that off. Of course, if some lovely lady came into my life, adjustments would have to be considered and compromises would likely have to be made. In other words, if the right bird came along, I'd be fucking like a rabbit.

The irony of the dry-spell is that I still hear rumors about the girls I've supposedly had sex with. I partially feel like a douche even having to address such shit, but I figure it's better than ignoring it and running the risk of anyone thinking I'm telling anyone about the sex I'm not having with anyone. Yea. And as the rumors continue to spread, I look less and less credible. "Hi. My name is ____ and I'm a make out slut." Since when does a kiss mean fucking? Did I miss that memo?

Jumping the Gun.

Clearly, I may have staked out my position too early in this campaign.

Jello Shots & Butt Naked.

I went out last Friday and got absolutely hammed, torched, pissed as a fiddler's bitch type drunk. Note to self: jello shots are more dangerous than they look.

I remember getting on the bus. I remember bitching at some guy named Gomez for obnoxiously opening his latest amazon package in the seat next to me. I remember becoming best-friends-on-the-bus with Gomez shortly thereafter. I remember declining Gomez' multiple offers to buy me a drink as long as I went to the bar he was going to. I remember thinking I was getting hit on on the bus and feeling decent about that. I remember getting off the bus and walking into the show. And I even remember going into the crowd and dancing in the moosh pit, yes moosh, there was no moshing, only mild mooshing.

I don't remember giving my card to the bar. I don't remember leaving my card at the bar [only had $3 on the tab? you know you're drunk when you spend 3 bucks and still forget your card]. I don't remember punching my friend "right in the solar plexus" after he answered "yes" whenever I asked him, "are you leaving soon?" [I punch like I'm anemic, no worries there] I don't remember getting into the cab. I don't remember calling a rather sensitive girl friend "dipshit" multiple times, nor do I remember emphatically telling her she sucked at kickball. I don't remember making oatmeal when I got home.

But I certainly do remember waking up butt naked, with a splitting headache and next to a 1L only wearing her bottoms. Didn't get beat up, didn't have blacked-out sex, I'll chalk that up as a victory.

San Ho + "Mormons."

So the moot court competition did not go so well. My primary concern was that I didn't get blamed for our lack of progression, I was worried about choking - that didn't happen. The rest of my team was furious with the way things shook out, they left for home even though we all had 2 more nights on our hotel rooms.

Well shit, those hotel rooms were nicer than my bedroom, so I decided to stick it out another night. Fortunately, I had a San Jose homeboy who was willing to take me out on the town for the evening.

I don't recall everything. I know I started with whisky + sobe, switched to pbrs, helped consume a wee bottle of sake, then we went out. I don't remember ordering much, but I know the tecate rounds were firing off like machine guns at Normandy.

I stumbled into a cab, told brosif to take me back to the hotel. I had him hold my wallet while I withdrew funds from the hotel ATM. He told me it wasn't necessary, I think I assured him it was. I don't remember going to my room, but I woke up without puke on my shirt, so score one for the good guys.

And when I finally looked in my wallet a few hours later, there was a random ass number. No name, I'm not even sure it was a bird I was talking to. The area code is Atlanta, go fucking figure.

Now I'm in Utah, god damn this place is white.

Ego Boost of the Week.

So I'm standing there with a beautiful hefeweizen in my hand, trying to enjoy myself at this 1L birthday party I managed to get invited to. It's in a rather posh part of the city, in a rather posh bar/club, which isn't necessarily my scene, but I try to blend as best I can, look the part as much as possible if for no other reason than to avoid the strange glances of douchebags who can tell I don't really belong. Additionally, since I don't know a shit-ton of 1Ls, I was looking to make conversation with anyone who'd give me the time.

One of the 1Ls I'm familiar with introduces me to her roommate. During the course of introductions, she's telling each of us a little about the other, giving us a good base of knowledge to work with to keep the conversation going. In short order she tells me where he's from, what he does, and how they met.

Then she turns to the roommate and, in a rather sweet sounding tone mind you, says, "___ is the guy all the 1L girls have crushes on."

YES! Victory is mine. She said some other shit about who I am and what I do at school, but what random non-school dude gives a shit about that? I don't think hombre was impressed with my ability to draw the affections of new students though as he didn't even offer to buy me another beer, prick.

Now if I could find an efficient way of overcoming my pesky habit of never talking to women I'm not already on speaking terms with, I might have myself a way to capitalize on this delightful piece of information.

In the mean time, I'm content with knowing there are birds out there that dig guys with awkward confidence and have a penchant for drinking whisky like it's going out of style, which is ironic, because drinking whisky will never go out of style.

Ego Knock of the Week.

A friend that has insider knowledge on The Pogue, he says to me the other night:

She likes you when she's drunk, she likes hooking up with you when you're both drunk. But when she's sober, not so much.

Ouch. Maybe more of a backhanded compliment than a straight-up knock. Still, it does a bloke no good to hear he's not as likeable when the other person is sober.

And it isn't as if I'm in a position where I'm dying for The Pogue to want to date me, because I'm not exactly dying for the idea of dating her. But you know, it's always nice to at least think the other person wants to date you.