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music |
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Dixie Chicks "Cold Day in July" |
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Ho, ho, ho? Really? It's like fucking July outside. I wore flip-flops today.
Anyway, hello.
Iowa City just turned into the silent Sahara, at least for me -- because I'm through with my finals and classes, and now I'm just bound to the dorms until Sunday, when I can finally go home. Naturally I've turned into an oversleeping, aimless, wandering nomad -- taking refuge at oases like Pita Pit when the going gets rough. Haven't run into too many tumbleweeds or scorpions so far, God help me. I'm effing Louis of Arabia up in this bitch.
But what a goddamn week it's been. I'm half sworn to secrecy about some things, but watch as I go ahead and divulge everything anyway. And I better do it speedily because I'm apparently heading to Jake's for a fellow RA's birthday. How is it I've been to Jake's more this semester than Studio? What kind of crack pipe have I been hitting? Actually, who knows what I've been smoking... get ready to judge for yourself.
Last weekend was the Daily Iowan Christmas party -- complete with, oh, a billion hors d'oeuvres and every sloshed reporter you can think of. I was most excited to dress up in my sweet plum button-up and pinstripe pants. On a scale from one to ten, I was fucking hot. And all my favorite hotties chatted with me: Maggie, Anna, Meghan, Rachel from photo, Soheil, everyone. Meghan hosted it, Jenna and Margaret cooked up the goodies, and it eventually became one of those affairs where you can't move it's so crowded. But onto the chase: who shows up, but my omnipresent "friend" from years past. I won't say his name. But I'll say you know who he is. He's THE Iowa gay male I know. Are you following? Think "slap-you-in-the-face gay" (compliments of Lauren Neybert's award-winning description of him). Okay, I'll assume you're correct. I'll fill you in later if you're slow. Real goddamn slow. Okay.
He shows up at the DI party (why?) and we talk, and when it's time to leave, he drives me home since the walk to Daum is impossibly long. Eventually, I invite him to sleep over... because that's nothing new between us. Eventually, I throw ALL RATIONALE to the wind and suggest, "Hey, let's make out." He starts pissing vinegar, like, "Um, no, I just couldn't. I used to want to be your boyfriend, but no. Things are different. I see how you dump people, Louis. I'm just not attracted. I'm just not this, or that, etc. etc. etc. bullshit I-like-to-hear-myself-talk-isms that don't apply to the question." Verbatim. So I was like, "Whatever, that's fine." And then we go to sleep -- except it's a chore to sleep in a matchbox-sized bed with another person. Then I guess he changed his mind about the not-getting-it-on. There's your story. I know, three years in the making (aside from the months and months of time apart where I used two cents worth of intellect to decide he was a jackass -- and he didn't understand). So more-than-spooning happens, and here's my big confession: it did not feel like a hookup. It felt like -- well, intimacy. Which is a scary thought. Because a relationship with this person would (drum roll) NEVER. FUCKING. WORK. I would kill all of us. It's no secret that I'm heavily conflicted about him -- and it's no secret I really wanted him during my freshman year. Even during my sophomore year at times. Definitely not now. After the deed was done, we parted ways -- and we haven't spoken about it since. I feel like the loser because I'm the one being the meek, weeping lady, all "Maybe we could have dinner! And discuss things! AND YOU COULD HOLD ME FOREVER." I invited him to sleep over again, and he was like, "Er, I have to get up tomorrow to go home." And I was like, "Er, okay."
I'm broadcasting this for two reasons -- I've written a lot of biting things about him in the DJ. I mean to give him credit here, because I certainly have invited him to fuck me over (not sexually. But what a pun!) on many occasions. Like, if I'm so concerned with him being shitty, I shouldn't be like, "Spoon with me." That whole common sense bit. I guess it was most nice to feel like I could have a sexual encounter with someone who was not an acquaintance. And by "acquaintance," I mean Josh, formerly of Media and Health class, who apparently has a 25-year-old boyfriend? Sir, you could've mentioned that a long time ago. Thanks.
So my head spun a little earlier this week. And I'm getting it back on straight before I return to Lemont. Also, Lemont. It sure hasn't hit me that I'll dwell in L-Town for a whole month. I don't know how I'm going to occupy myself. Applying places for internships, maybe. God, I'm so scared of being alone too often. I can't fucking handle it anymore. Sign me up for an apartment in Chicago and a brand new life full of stand-up and journalism, fucking please. Anyway, I got an A+ in Arts & Culture Reporting, and I've got a flurry of equally impressive grades surely on the horizon. Or so I tell myself. I'd like to graduate Summa Cum Laude if I could, but I'm pretty content with Magna, if that's how things go.
Also on the horizon: oral surgery. I'm having a gum graft, which means they'll steal gum tissue from the roof of my mouth and use it to replenish deficient areas around my teeth. Thing is, I don't have awful gum deficiency. We're dropping two grand so that my jaw surgery next summer isn't complicated by gum issues. Whatever. If it's all to ensure I'll have a fifty-million-watt grin (like Barack Obama!), I'm game.
I'm finally seeing previews on MTV for that show I applied to earlier this year. It actually looks pretty decent. A big step up in class from, say, The Hills. Everytime I see the preview, I make sure to tell everyone around, "I was a semi-finalist! Top 5% of applicants! You're impressed! I can see it in your ignoring me." So I'm looking forward to watching it. And seeing Rolling Stone hottie Joe Levy say journalistic things. If they have tryouts again, I'll hit it up -- I can't see why I wouldn't get picked again. Fear my superstardom, MTV, this shit's imminent.
In the meantime, I've been BFFing with Kiki, Jessica, and Lauren. Everything's dreamy with them.
Christmas is ten days away, and I'm looking forward to playing Trivial Pursuit with my family and blocking out the real world for a few fleeting moments. And ignoring PT, hopefully. Have I talked about this yet? PT has been calling me from a blocked number really reglarly over the past semester. I answer the phone, and he doesn't say anything. When I stopped answering the phone for each 3 a.m. blocked call, he starteed calling from his cell phone. And from his mom's work phone, too. Three nights ago, he called me six times in a row. What the hell? Alright, you want to hook up, I get it, but... I'm in Iowa. I can't teleport myself to your basement, PT. No, actually, doing anything with him is a fucking awful idea. Frankly, who knows where he's been? It's not like other guys I've been with, because they're upfront about their hookups. PT, on the other hand, could be gangbanging AIDS-infested drug addicts in the city, and I'd never know. God help me survive Lemont boredom, however. Resigning to masturbation -- probably a winning idea. You had no idea you were so close with me.
But I've gotta get dressed for tonight. Merry early Christmas -- I wish you good tidings and Madonna, now and year-round otherwise.
"Even when I was seventeen, fuck and run."
Fucking it up in Guyville, xoxo,
Louis
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