Despite flamboyant tendencies, I like to consider myself on the conservative side of "gay."
I don't know many showtunes (though I know all the lyrics to "Legally Blonde: The Musical." Just because it's about me). Seriously! Bubbly girl who kicks ass and takes names, all with a smile on her face? Thaaaat's me! Also, I've never had 3 relationships in 3 months like many of my peers. But these reasons are why I feel so weird in gay bars.
Everyone's skinnier than me. They have better hair than me. They get more attention from other boys than I do. In turn, I pinpoint their one flaw and judge from across the room. All my friends get a laugh out of it, but I'm still single.
The Boy Scout asked me to Karaoke Night again this summer. I, of course, accepted. Little did I know he was going to show up with 2 cars full of other boy scouts... and a girl boy scout.
DISCLAIMER: I am not making this up. This stuff ACTUALLY happens to me.
I rolled up to the parking lot down the street from the club in my new (used) Toyota Avalon, affectionately named "Wilberta." As I walked down the street in my graphic tee and skin-tight jeans (thank you, Katy Perry), I saw a big group of boy scouts standing outside of a gay bar. The only thing weirder would be if the Scout Master was there. And touching people.
The Boy Scout greeted me, "HEY! COREY!" and gave me a big hug. We did introductions and said "Hi" to the kids I already knew from last year and went inside. Coincidentally, I had just turned 21 and was adorned with a yellow bracelet (ew) which read, "PARTY TIME!" Little did I know that this would be a foreshadowing of the debauchery that was to follow.
Karaoke night was in full swing at the gay bar. When we entered the bar room, there was an extremely skinny homosexual boy dressed completely in black, with a spiky belt and long hair. I grabbed the Boy Scout's hand and said, "Oh, my God, it's Chris Crocker! Should we ask him to leave Britney alone?" The Boy Scout laughed but quickly caught himself and told me to stop being judgmental... Which he knew wouldn't happen, but he still had to say it. The situation only got worse when Chris Crocker's chunky fag hags joined in the fun. While he sang the chorus of a Fall Out Boy song (Of course), they rushed the stage and started booty-dancing. ...What?
The Boy Scout left me for a second to sign up for karaoke. Next thing I knew, I was singing "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga, accompanied by the Boy Scout and his entire troop. It was like that YouTube video where the unattractive frat boys sing "Bad Romance" a capella... We didn't sound as good, but we (read: some of us) were better-looking. The entire bar was singing along and dancing. I'll never forget the one kid dancing on his bar stool. His legs were kicking, he put his hands in the air like he just didn't care, and you could see the music moving through him. I've never seen so many queer boys belting Lady Gaga at one time except for that one time at Providence Pride (which is another story for another blog entry).
Performing is such a rush. Call me an attention whore (and you wouldn't be wrong), but there are few better feelings than the applause of an entire room after you've just poured your heart and soul into a song. On the reverse, I can't help but have a minor panic attack going into any kind of performing/public speaking. It makes me think of that scene from "Citizen Kane" when the private investigator is interviewing Kane's wife and she has that flashback...
She's sitting in front of the fireplace, and she says to her husband, "I couldn't make you see how I felt, Charlie. But I couldn't go through with the singing again. You don't know what it means to know that people are...that a whole audience just doesn't want you." I really felt for her. It's tough to go up on a stage and give it your all, only to have a room full of people scowl and send negativity your way. That scene has always made me tear up. It's hard to not identify with her terror and disappointment, you know? There are harsh critics out there.
As the night went on, the Boy Scout and I continued to pick duets and perform. The songs were then followed by "Eagle Scout shots." Each boy scout who had reached a certain rank had to do a shot. My Boy Scout, however, was not legal and I was. The bartender refused to release it to the Boy Scout, so I took it in his place. All of the boys started to cheer, "YEAH! COREY'S AN HONORARY EAGLE SCOUT NOW!"
"Does that mean I have to sleep in the dirt and tie knots out of rope?" I asked. I got a few head-shakes in response. You can take the boy out of the gay bar, but you can't take the gay bar out of the boy...
Once the night started to wind down, however, we noticed that a set of eyes had been on us the entire time. "He's been staring at us all night," I said, getting possessive once more.
Yeah, but he's also been all over that old, fat guy," the Boy Scout responded. Shocking. Another creep is staring at me? That NEVER happens. The Boy Scout continued to speak, "You know, the Scout Master gave us a challenge tonight."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"He said that whoever got the most numbers at the bar would get to sleep through breakfast tomorrow."
"Well, what are you waiting for? Get the creep's number," I told him.
"What?"
"Look, he's been staring at us all night. And I'm gonna look like a loser if you just stare back the whole time. Introduce yourself. It'll be a good story."
"Will you come with me?"
I grabbed his hand. "Absolutely." We walked over to the tall man with a snaggle-tooth, dressed in nothing but a tank top and shorts... at the club. Really, buddy? Show some class. The place might be a dive, but everyone else made an effort! The man introduced himself as "Adam." He was "Twenty-stheven yearsth old." I deciphered his lisp and found out that he was 27. I knew this was about to get good, so I promptly introduced myself. The Boy Scout then found the balls to do the same. Adam put his number into the Boy Scout's phone and we walked away, laughing about what had just transpired.
"You better win this fuckin' contest," I said to him.
"Don't you worry, I have this down. My competition is a bunch of straight guys at a gay bar."
It was then that the "get the fuck out lights," as my friend Sarah calls them, illuminated the entire bar. Last call had long passed and the bar was closed. We made our way out into the warm, summer morning. It was 2 a.m. in the city. There was no humidity. For a New England summer? That was pretty awesome.
The straight boy scouts were outside flirting with a couple of fag hags, while the girl boy scout lit up a joint and passed it around the circle. I had a minor panic attack in my head, because we were outside of the club, under a streetlight, and a cop had just driven by. I wouldn't fare well in jail. I had visions of becoming a prison bitch and holding onto the soap as tight as I possibly could. Knowing myself, I can't stand being dirty... So, once I dropped it, I'd pick it up and find myself victim to a prisoner who would do anything for a little mangina.
I turned to the Boy Scout, who could sense the crazy passing through my head. He came at me without warning and planted a big kiss on my lips. It was at that moment where I felt all the crazy dissipate (which is quite the feat, 'cause I'm a fucking lunatic) and I smiled.
The moment was killed, however, when Girl Boy Scout started cheering, "MAKE OUT AGAIN! MAKE OUT AGAIN! MAKE OUT AGAIN!" When I met her earlier in the night, I knew I didn't like her because to be a girl boy scout, you have to be one of those girls that wants to "make a point" about gender inequality and show all those stupid boys that you can get messy and help old people walk across the street, too. I glared in her general direction, but my dirty look didn't last long. I felt a very forceful SMACK ON MY ASS. The Boy Scout and I turned around to face Adam.
"Oh. Hey, Adam..."
"WHAT'STH GOIN' ON, GUYSTH?" he asked.
"Nothing," I snapped. Behind that "nothing" was a big, "GO THE FUCK AWAY," but I'm a little classier than saying that to someone's face.
That's when the Boy Scout's friend and right-hand man, Rich, spoke up. "We're going to the pizza place on Thayer St. Everyone ready?"
"Oh, I know where that isth!" Adam volunteered.
The Boy Scout looked at me. "Corey, where are you parked?"
I pointed to the left. "I don't know how to get there. Where are you parked? Can I follow you?" I responded. He pointed in the other direction. That's when Adam interjected.
"Oh, Corey, I'm parked over that way! You can follow me there, I'll show you the way!"
The silence was more uncomfortable than an AIDS joke in a room full of promiscuous gay men. The Boy Scout took this opportunity to man up. "Corey, I'll walk you to your car."
Adam had lost the battle, but the war to rape me in a back alley was not yet over. The Boy Scout called back to the others and said, "I'll meet you back here in a couple minutes." He then took me by the hand and the three of us walked toward my car.
"Are you coming with us because you guys need a little 'make-out time?'" Adam asked, snickering.
The Boy Scout came back at him with a simple, "Yeah," and we crossed the street to get in my car, leaving Adam in the dust. The Boy Scout jumped into Wilberta's passenger seat and kissed me with this intense energy I had never felt before. What was probably only two minutes felt like it lasted hours. And it felt good. That's when there was a knock on my driver's side window.
"Hey, make-out queensth! Let'sth go!" Adam snapped in a jealous tone.
After I dropped the Boy Scout off at his car and followed Adam to the pizza place, I found myself alone with him outside. The Boy Scout was nowhere to be found. It was then that Adam took the time we had alone together to tell me about his DRAMATIC FUCKING LIFE (This is the pot calling the kettle black).
Apparently, Adam has a 300-lb. sugar daddy who takes him to the club and buys him lavish gifts. Meanwhile, his fiancee lives an hour away, so Adam is free to do whatever he wants and hook up with whoever he wants. His fiancee also, apparently, knows about his sugar daddy, because the fiancee is going to put diamonds in the skull ring that the sugar daddy bought for him. And, to top it all off, he has a 6 year old child named "COLTON JAMESTH" who lives in "ARIZTHONA."
"Wait, he's your biological child?!" I asked, incredulously.
"Yeah!" Adam cheered excitedly.
I wasn't about to go into the gory details on this one. While Adam rambled about his child's favorite color and the last time he went to visit him, my phone rang. Recognizing the custom ring tone immediately, I picked up my African-American Berry and said, "Hello?" It was the Boy Scout. But Adam wouldn't shut the fuck up. "Adam, hold on. Hello? ADAM, HOLD. ON."
"Are you alive?" the Boy Scout asked, worried about me having followed a drunk driver to the restaurant.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Good, we're almost there." Click.
He arrived and we spent the night talking outside of the pizza place. It was nice and peaceful... until the fat girl who we saw at the club sat down on the car across the street. The car in question was parked outside of a Chinese restaurant. Fat Club Girl's ass caused the car's alarm to sound loudly (at 2 o'clock in the morning). The only person who was bothered was the car's owner, who, coincidentally, owned the Chinese restaurant.
"YOU NO SIT ON CAAAHH," he screamed. "YOU NO SIT ON CAAAHH!"
I got a kick out of this and immediately snapped a picture on my African-American Berry. The Boy Scout smirked and rolled his eyes. He was never one to encourage my antics, but he could never deny enjoying them. This process with the fat girl sitting on the car repeated itself two more times. Fool her once, shame on you. Fool her twice, buy her a submarine sandwich from a late-night pizza place.
Either way, Adam didn't appreciate the fact that the attention wasn't on him. He continued to tell us about his upcoming wedding in Puerta Vallarta, but kept emphasizing that "didn't stop him from being able to play." I vomited a little in my mouth. The thought of boning someone with a snaggletooth is not appealing to me in the least.
Eventually, the adrenaline high that everyone experienced from the night's events dwindled and the pizza place closed. As we left and the Manager shut the door, a shitfaced, Asian drag queen appeared out of nowhere, bolted toward the door, and hung onto it for dear life. "No, we're closed!" the Manager shouted. But that didn't stop Drunky. He/She/It grunted while pulling on the door handle. Eventually, the pizza place Manager won the tug of war, shut the door, and locked it. Drunky was very upset at this turn of events, so he/she/it (shit?) ran away, flailing its arms and crying.
I was dumbfounded. Mostly because I couldn't find the reality show cameras OR Ashton Kutcher. But when all the lights went out in the buildings on that street, I knew the night was over. But I was wrong. "Corey, let me walk you to your car," the Boy Scout offered again. I agreed, fearing what Adam might try to do. Adam naturally followed us down the street to my car, but kept his distance. We kissed and hugged good night, which caused more jealousy flare-ups on Adam's face. He kept bragging about his ring. "I told you I'm getting diamonds put in the skull's eyes, right?"
I ignored him. But the Boy Scout decided to appease him (knowing that I was sick of his bullshit). "Yeah, Adam. Call ya tomorrow! See ya!" With that Adam got in his car and drove away. The Boy Scout wasn't my boyfriend, but he was acting like a gentleman. And to be treated well in that moment was enough for me. He started to walk down the street toward his car. I rolled down my window. "Don't you want a ride?"
"Oh... Yeah!"
Holding my right hand while I drove with my left, the Boy Scout and I made our way down the street. We pulled into the parking lot, where we found 3 boy scouts peeing in the bushes.
Not the romantic ending I was expecting.
I followed the Boy Scout and his friends back to the highway. And through the windows, I could hear, "BYE, COREY," as I pulled on to the highway. It was kind of like that moment in "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" where the kids feel "infinite," only way cooler.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Ralph Lauren Called... He Wants You to Stop Popping Your Collar
Since high school, I've been perfecting the art of fashion and telling my mother, "No, you don't get to buy my clothes anymore." Also since high school, I've popped the collars of my polo shirts. It was semi-cool back then, but I keep it alive as an homage to the 1980s, and as my personal fashion statement.
My family, and my mother especially, have never understood. Back in high school, we had a senior dress-up day where we were supposed to dress up like a past decade. Lois suggested to me, "Core, wear two polo shirts and pop the collars!"
"...Mom, I do that NOW," I responded.
***
Fast forward to the present day. As you've probably seen in my previous posts (and if you haven't, get to it!), I'm a little desperate when it comes to dating. What? You think I'm semi-attractive? Let's go out a couple times! Then, you'll say something stupid and I'll pretend it didn't happen until you finally make me hate your guts. Then I'll ignore you and you'll delete me off Facebook. It's a vicious cycle.
One night, I just happened to log into my Myspace and found a friend request from a boy who was friends with one of my other friends. He seemed nice and we hit it off. So it only seemed natural that we'd meet and try to see if there was chemistry in real time.
Elated, I went into work going on and on about my date that Friday night, causing nausea to overtake everyone in the office. We were scheduled to meet at 7pm that night. 4pm rolled around and my shift had just ended, when my African-American Berry started to vibrate.
"Oh, I just got a text! I bet it's HIM..." I swooned. Jenn and Jillian smirked at each other, because they get a kick out of the young, puppy love stage I always seem to find myself in. Both of them having been in serious relationships for years, they have to laugh at me a little bit. I think it's justified.
"What does it say?" Jenn asked.
"'Hey, can we reschedule? I have an ear infection...'" I read.
Jenn saw the color drain out of my face and offered to go to dinner and a movie with me. I declined and went home to watch chick flicks and cry.
But not all was lost. We rescheduled to go to dinner and a movie. And I had to come up with a plan of attack. I went to the Grace to my Will: Amy.
"Corey, be you. Be loud, be outgoing, be funny, be yourself. What are you wearing?"
"Well, I just bought these new dark jeans, black Chucks, and a black polo."
Amy knows me a little too well. "Popped collar?"
"I don't think so. I don't wanna be TOO MUCH for him..."
"Corey, you need to BE YOURSELF. And that's you! Do it!"
She actually sent me a BBM the night of the date: "Collar popped? ...Good boy."
The date was fun. The conversation was okay, more negativity than I usually like on a first date. I really didn't wanna know about how much he hated his mom, but he was cute and nice to me! And he gave me a big bear hug goodbye and a big kiss on the cheek. It was very kind and conservative, but in a good way. 'Cause I have this bad habit of rushing things...
Later that week, we started talking about what we were going to do that weekend. He changed the subject abruptly and said, "I just have one request."
"Yes?"
"Can you not pop your collar anymore? I don't dig it."
My jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah, I don't like it. Can you stop?"
"...No."
There was silence for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."
"Uh, well, I'd rather you be honest, but I'm not changing it," I said.
"Oh, okay, my baby pops his collar," he cheered. This was too much for me. We went on one date, and all of a sudden he pulls out the overly-controlling personality trait card and calls me "baby?" Red flags all over that.
A week and a half later, I got an IM from him.
"Hey, why did we stop talking?"
"...Oh, gee, I don't know, because you judged me?"
"Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you!"
I closed the window, so as to not dignify him with a response.
***
I went down a bit of a shame spiral after this, and kept dating loser after loser. I think my best moment was the date I went on a week after that. We went to the Cheesecake Factory and saw that crappy Jonah Hill and Russell Brand movie. Let's just say, the movie didn't hold my attention, and neither did he.
"...Corey, wake up. You're snoring and everyone in the theater is staring."
My family, and my mother especially, have never understood. Back in high school, we had a senior dress-up day where we were supposed to dress up like a past decade. Lois suggested to me, "Core, wear two polo shirts and pop the collars!"
"...Mom, I do that NOW," I responded.
***
Fast forward to the present day. As you've probably seen in my previous posts (and if you haven't, get to it!), I'm a little desperate when it comes to dating. What? You think I'm semi-attractive? Let's go out a couple times! Then, you'll say something stupid and I'll pretend it didn't happen until you finally make me hate your guts. Then I'll ignore you and you'll delete me off Facebook. It's a vicious cycle.
One night, I just happened to log into my Myspace and found a friend request from a boy who was friends with one of my other friends. He seemed nice and we hit it off. So it only seemed natural that we'd meet and try to see if there was chemistry in real time.
Elated, I went into work going on and on about my date that Friday night, causing nausea to overtake everyone in the office. We were scheduled to meet at 7pm that night. 4pm rolled around and my shift had just ended, when my African-American Berry started to vibrate.
"Oh, I just got a text! I bet it's HIM..." I swooned. Jenn and Jillian smirked at each other, because they get a kick out of the young, puppy love stage I always seem to find myself in. Both of them having been in serious relationships for years, they have to laugh at me a little bit. I think it's justified.
"What does it say?" Jenn asked.
"'Hey, can we reschedule? I have an ear infection...'" I read.
Jenn saw the color drain out of my face and offered to go to dinner and a movie with me. I declined and went home to watch chick flicks and cry.
But not all was lost. We rescheduled to go to dinner and a movie. And I had to come up with a plan of attack. I went to the Grace to my Will: Amy.
"Corey, be you. Be loud, be outgoing, be funny, be yourself. What are you wearing?"
"Well, I just bought these new dark jeans, black Chucks, and a black polo."
Amy knows me a little too well. "Popped collar?"
"I don't think so. I don't wanna be TOO MUCH for him..."
"Corey, you need to BE YOURSELF. And that's you! Do it!"
She actually sent me a BBM the night of the date: "Collar popped? ...Good boy."
The date was fun. The conversation was okay, more negativity than I usually like on a first date. I really didn't wanna know about how much he hated his mom, but he was cute and nice to me! And he gave me a big bear hug goodbye and a big kiss on the cheek. It was very kind and conservative, but in a good way. 'Cause I have this bad habit of rushing things...
Later that week, we started talking about what we were going to do that weekend. He changed the subject abruptly and said, "I just have one request."
"Yes?"
"Can you not pop your collar anymore? I don't dig it."
My jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah, I don't like it. Can you stop?"
"...No."
There was silence for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."
"Uh, well, I'd rather you be honest, but I'm not changing it," I said.
"Oh, okay, my baby pops his collar," he cheered. This was too much for me. We went on one date, and all of a sudden he pulls out the overly-controlling personality trait card and calls me "baby?" Red flags all over that.
A week and a half later, I got an IM from him.
"Hey, why did we stop talking?"
"...Oh, gee, I don't know, because you judged me?"
"Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you!"
I closed the window, so as to not dignify him with a response.
***
I went down a bit of a shame spiral after this, and kept dating loser after loser. I think my best moment was the date I went on a week after that. We went to the Cheesecake Factory and saw that crappy Jonah Hill and Russell Brand movie. Let's just say, the movie didn't hold my attention, and neither did he.
"...Corey, wake up. You're snoring and everyone in the theater is staring."
Monday, May 31, 2010
Tales From the Crypt (of Customer Service)
For anyone looking for an easy job that pays well, customer service isn't the right career path. As I approach my fourth year of dealing with angry, whiny clientele and part-time status, I've seen some wild things and met all kinds of crazy people.
The weird thing? I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world.
Picture this: First day on the job as a movie theater rep.
"Okay, ma'am," I said as I handed a bag of popcorn and several sodas to the guest at the counter. "Your total is seventeen dollars."
She looked at me incredulously in response. "You have to PAY?!"
***
It sounds terrible, but dealing with language barriers makes me wanna take my own life. It's not a matter of racism, it's the awkward moment where you have to politely let your customer know you don't understand what the fuck they're saying because they've just gotten off the boat and are incredulous that you don't carry Curry-flavored soda.
One day, I answered the phone. "Hi, this is Corey, how may I help you?"
"Yes, I want to see E-Wall and Wanted," a man with a thick accent replied.
"Sir, do you mean Wall-E and Wanted?"
"Yes, I want to see E-Wall and Wanted."
"...Okay, well, we don't have those movies. We have Batman, but it's sold out."
"Okay, fine, but when are E-Wall and Wanted playing?"
"Sir, we do NOT have those movies."
"When are they playing?"
It was at this moment that I knew customer service was not the career path for me. But I still come back for more. I'm a glutton for punishment.
***
Furniture's even trickier.
"Hi, this is Corey, how may I help you?"
"I have your delivery drivers here, and I'm NOT letting them leave," an obviously angry woman snapped at me.
"...Excuse me?"
"THEY BROUGHT THE WRONG BED."
"What's wrong with it?"
"They brought a black footboard and a RED HEADBOARD." The woman continued screaming at me, and I had to hold the phone away so she didn't hear me laughing at her. She then went on to demand, "You better get in a truck and bring me the right bed!"
Okay, lady, I'm gonna go hop in a truck and bring you a brand new bed to your summer home in South Buttfuck. I'll get right on that.
***
My favorite job so far has been being a greeter. I like talking to people. ...Well, some people.
One day, I saw an old lady sitting on a bench. She looked kind of confused and lonely, so I approached her. "Ma'am, are you finding everything alright?"
"Oh yes, but sonny, come here a second!"
I cautiously inched closer. "...Yes?"
"Are you on the Jay Leno Show? You're that fella, Ross! The gay fella!"
"Yes, you caught me. I left showbusiness to greet people on a Saturday night for $9 an hour."
People are really dumb.
The weird thing? I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world.
Picture this: First day on the job as a movie theater rep.
"Okay, ma'am," I said as I handed a bag of popcorn and several sodas to the guest at the counter. "Your total is seventeen dollars."
She looked at me incredulously in response. "You have to PAY?!"
***
It sounds terrible, but dealing with language barriers makes me wanna take my own life. It's not a matter of racism, it's the awkward moment where you have to politely let your customer know you don't understand what the fuck they're saying because they've just gotten off the boat and are incredulous that you don't carry Curry-flavored soda.
One day, I answered the phone. "Hi, this is Corey, how may I help you?"
"Yes, I want to see E-Wall and Wanted," a man with a thick accent replied.
"Sir, do you mean Wall-E and Wanted?"
"Yes, I want to see E-Wall and Wanted."
"...Okay, well, we don't have those movies. We have Batman, but it's sold out."
"Okay, fine, but when are E-Wall and Wanted playing?"
"Sir, we do NOT have those movies."
"When are they playing?"
It was at this moment that I knew customer service was not the career path for me. But I still come back for more. I'm a glutton for punishment.
***
Furniture's even trickier.
"Hi, this is Corey, how may I help you?"
"I have your delivery drivers here, and I'm NOT letting them leave," an obviously angry woman snapped at me.
"...Excuse me?"
"THEY BROUGHT THE WRONG BED."
"What's wrong with it?"
"They brought a black footboard and a RED HEADBOARD." The woman continued screaming at me, and I had to hold the phone away so she didn't hear me laughing at her. She then went on to demand, "You better get in a truck and bring me the right bed!"
Okay, lady, I'm gonna go hop in a truck and bring you a brand new bed to your summer home in South Buttfuck. I'll get right on that.
***
My favorite job so far has been being a greeter. I like talking to people. ...Well, some people.
One day, I saw an old lady sitting on a bench. She looked kind of confused and lonely, so I approached her. "Ma'am, are you finding everything alright?"
"Oh yes, but sonny, come here a second!"
I cautiously inched closer. "...Yes?"
"Are you on the Jay Leno Show? You're that fella, Ross! The gay fella!"
"Yes, you caught me. I left showbusiness to greet people on a Saturday night for $9 an hour."
People are really dumb.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tracy Turnblad is an Asshole.
I was driving into the lawyers' office the other morning, lost in thought. I bitch about traffic, but I secretly love long drives in the morning during rush hour, because it's a good time to decompress and think about everything going on in my life.
As I approached the exit that would FINALLY take me off the Expressway (Sidenote: Why do they call it the "Expressway" when it's so God damn slow?!), "Without Love" from Hairspray started playing through my iPod. I sang Zac Efron's part, believing myself to be within his vocal range, and also wanting to have rabid monkey sex with him.
Then my thoughts turned to the story's plot: Tubby girl who can sing has crush on pretty boy in her high school (Story of my life!). And it got me thinking... Especially about the lyrics: "Tracy I'm in love with you / No matter what you weigh."
Zac Efron... is full of shit. It's my experience that fat chicks are inherently miserable and like to attach themselves to popular gay guys (Story of my life... again!). Was Link Larkin a chubby chaser? Furthermore, why should I believe that Link and Tracy would STAY together after their "happy ending?" They're FIFTEEN years old! That shit won't last past the summer... Link will dump Tracy for someone skinner. Then she'll eat ice cream and cry.
***
I found myself sitting on the couch a few weeks ago. It was the first night of summer vacation. While some reveled in the unusually warm, spring air and got their booze on, I was eating ice cream and watching "He's Just Not That Into You..." Alone.
This film has become a staple in my repertoire. Mostly due to an unfortunate incident involving a final project for Studio TV Producion II.
***
One of the class' professors handed me a script. "Corey! You'll be directing two scenes from 'He's Just Not That Into You.'"
Ashleigh piped up, "Professor, that's perfect! Because that's the story of Corey's life!"
I think it sucks that people like me live for these small moments of male attention. We just want to be loved and love in return. And when that opportunity seemingly presents itself, it turns out it was never really there at all.
I had a confrontation with a prospective suitor who took me out on the town, introduced me to his friends, and opened his home to me. I asked him, "Did monogamy die and I didn't get the memo? I don't think it's so much to ask to be doted on by ONE person and not have to worry about him following his cock to greener pastures."
Am I right? Or does this concept not exist anymore?
As I approached the exit that would FINALLY take me off the Expressway (Sidenote: Why do they call it the "Expressway" when it's so God damn slow?!), "Without Love" from Hairspray started playing through my iPod. I sang Zac Efron's part, believing myself to be within his vocal range, and also wanting to have rabid monkey sex with him.
Then my thoughts turned to the story's plot: Tubby girl who can sing has crush on pretty boy in her high school (Story of my life!). And it got me thinking... Especially about the lyrics: "Tracy I'm in love with you / No matter what you weigh."
Zac Efron... is full of shit. It's my experience that fat chicks are inherently miserable and like to attach themselves to popular gay guys (Story of my life... again!). Was Link Larkin a chubby chaser? Furthermore, why should I believe that Link and Tracy would STAY together after their "happy ending?" They're FIFTEEN years old! That shit won't last past the summer... Link will dump Tracy for someone skinner. Then she'll eat ice cream and cry.
***
I found myself sitting on the couch a few weeks ago. It was the first night of summer vacation. While some reveled in the unusually warm, spring air and got their booze on, I was eating ice cream and watching "He's Just Not That Into You..." Alone.
This film has become a staple in my repertoire. Mostly due to an unfortunate incident involving a final project for Studio TV Producion II.
***
One of the class' professors handed me a script. "Corey! You'll be directing two scenes from 'He's Just Not That Into You.'"
Ashleigh piped up, "Professor, that's perfect! Because that's the story of Corey's life!"
I think it sucks that people like me live for these small moments of male attention. We just want to be loved and love in return. And when that opportunity seemingly presents itself, it turns out it was never really there at all.
I had a confrontation with a prospective suitor who took me out on the town, introduced me to his friends, and opened his home to me. I asked him, "Did monogamy die and I didn't get the memo? I don't think it's so much to ask to be doted on by ONE person and not have to worry about him following his cock to greener pastures."
Am I right? Or does this concept not exist anymore?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
I Hit Rock Bottom, Took Pictures, and I Came Back Already (Part 2)
I love IMing, because it helps me to keep in touch with lots of people. I caught up with Jess T. tonight, and this is what came of it:
Corey: I don't know, I'm still in that rebound/bad date stage. Remember that time a guy took me to dinner and told me I giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy? He wondered why I didn't call him back...
Jess: hahahahahaha
Corey: And then there was the banker who got me into a bar... didn't pay for my drink... got me to open a checking account... and then only ever hit me up again to tell me he was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma.
Jess: ...omg am I allowed to laugh?
Corey: I don't know, I'm still in that rebound/bad date stage. Remember that time a guy took me to dinner and told me I giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy? He wondered why I didn't call him back...
Jess: hahahahahaha
Corey: And then there was the banker who got me into a bar... didn't pay for my drink... got me to open a checking account... and then only ever hit me up again to tell me he was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma.
Jess: ...omg am I allowed to laugh?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
I Hit Rock Bottom, Took Pictures, and I Came Back Already.
I feel bad for people who don't have friends. Granted, there's probably a reason why they don't have friends... Like, maybe they don't bathe. Or they dress up as their Dungeons and Dragons character at work. Or maybe their personality is so offensive that no one can stand to be around them. It's tough being perfect, but it's a line I toe on a daily basis.
The guys I date, however, do not. And whenever I get hurt, I have good friends who pick me right back up and set me straight (no pun intended).
At work, we have a huge parking lot. With more than 500 parking spaces, there's lots of room at night once all the guests have left. Working in the same place for almost four years now, the parking lot, and the building itself, hold a lot of memories. Tonight, I was reminded just how lucky I am to work with the people I do.
Upset about yet another douchebag using me as a back-up because he dumped me for a guy who won't take him back, who then hooked up with someone who's hugely obese and has a weird face, Amy and Jenn had to listen to my crying for a good half-hour, as a cold breeze swept the hilltop. Consoled, I came home to do laundry and found a text on my phone:
"From: Jenn
MSG: You r amazing. Love you."
That was the pick-me-up I needed.
It made me think about all the other times people have helped me, and there's one instance that stands out in my mind.
When I was 18, I met a boy who I liked, who begged to take me to dinner and a movie... and then took my virginity. Amazed by someone wanting to be close to me and physical with me, I rode the wave for 3 days... Until it became abundantly clear that he had no intention of calling me.
The following Saturday, I worked the opening shift in the movie theater. Maria noticed I was upset all afternoon and as my shift was ending, she reassured me that I deserve better than waiting by the phone for someone who won't call. A lesson I learned the hard way when I stayed up until 3 am waiting for the same guy to call me and say "good night."
I left work and made my way to the Bargain Bin at Circuit City (may it rest in peace). I picked up several movies. At the top of the pile was "Never Been Kissed," which had never been seen by me. I came home without a word to my parents, popped the movie into the DVD player, and curled up into the fetal position on my bed.
The scene where Drew Barrymore dances in her foyer at home to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna broke my heart. Here was this teenage girl (much like myself, only without a penis) who had never felt beautiful in her life. And when she got asked out by the most popular boy in school, she was ELATED. She had messed-up hair and poorly applied make-up, but no one had given her the time of day or shown her how to properly groom herself. She didn't have any emotional support and felt alone in the world.
But this boy, the one she put so much faith in and devoted so much affection to, she thought would change that.
Drew Barrymore... was wrong.
She leaves her house, only to have her expensive dress ruined by eggs, which the popular boy throws at her from his limo. Embarrassed, hurt, and alone, she runs into the night, to hide from her family. Rather than show weakness, she hides what she's feeling and puts on a brave face. Even though it's only a facade.
I could so identify with Josie Geller. The movie progressed to the climactic scene where Drew Barrymore reveals that she's a 25-year old undercover reporter, and not a high school kid, when my phone started to ring.
"Incoming call from: Maria"
A picture of my best friend pretending to move in for a kiss under some mistletoe appeared on the screen and I answered.
"H-h-hellooo..."
"Hey, Corey, how are you doing?"
"(Sniffle). Maria! They ruined Drew Barrymore's prom by throwing eggs at her! Then they tried dumping dog food on the nerdy girl, but Drew Barrymore stopped them! AND NOW, SHE'S GIVING A SPEECH."
"...What the fuck are you talking about?"
"(Sniffle). I'm w-w-watching 'N-Never Been Kissed...'"
Maria went on to explain that this guy I was crying over was an asshole and that chick flicks were gay. I love brutal honestly. And that's what I needed to hear.
The guys I date, however, do not. And whenever I get hurt, I have good friends who pick me right back up and set me straight (no pun intended).
At work, we have a huge parking lot. With more than 500 parking spaces, there's lots of room at night once all the guests have left. Working in the same place for almost four years now, the parking lot, and the building itself, hold a lot of memories. Tonight, I was reminded just how lucky I am to work with the people I do.
Upset about yet another douchebag using me as a back-up because he dumped me for a guy who won't take him back, who then hooked up with someone who's hugely obese and has a weird face, Amy and Jenn had to listen to my crying for a good half-hour, as a cold breeze swept the hilltop. Consoled, I came home to do laundry and found a text on my phone:
"From: Jenn
MSG: You r amazing. Love you."
That was the pick-me-up I needed.
It made me think about all the other times people have helped me, and there's one instance that stands out in my mind.
When I was 18, I met a boy who I liked, who begged to take me to dinner and a movie... and then took my virginity. Amazed by someone wanting to be close to me and physical with me, I rode the wave for 3 days... Until it became abundantly clear that he had no intention of calling me.
The following Saturday, I worked the opening shift in the movie theater. Maria noticed I was upset all afternoon and as my shift was ending, she reassured me that I deserve better than waiting by the phone for someone who won't call. A lesson I learned the hard way when I stayed up until 3 am waiting for the same guy to call me and say "good night."
I left work and made my way to the Bargain Bin at Circuit City (may it rest in peace). I picked up several movies. At the top of the pile was "Never Been Kissed," which had never been seen by me. I came home without a word to my parents, popped the movie into the DVD player, and curled up into the fetal position on my bed.
The scene where Drew Barrymore dances in her foyer at home to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna broke my heart. Here was this teenage girl (much like myself, only without a penis) who had never felt beautiful in her life. And when she got asked out by the most popular boy in school, she was ELATED. She had messed-up hair and poorly applied make-up, but no one had given her the time of day or shown her how to properly groom herself. She didn't have any emotional support and felt alone in the world.
But this boy, the one she put so much faith in and devoted so much affection to, she thought would change that.
Drew Barrymore... was wrong.
She leaves her house, only to have her expensive dress ruined by eggs, which the popular boy throws at her from his limo. Embarrassed, hurt, and alone, she runs into the night, to hide from her family. Rather than show weakness, she hides what she's feeling and puts on a brave face. Even though it's only a facade.
I could so identify with Josie Geller. The movie progressed to the climactic scene where Drew Barrymore reveals that she's a 25-year old undercover reporter, and not a high school kid, when my phone started to ring.
"Incoming call from: Maria"
A picture of my best friend pretending to move in for a kiss under some mistletoe appeared on the screen and I answered.
"H-h-hellooo..."
"Hey, Corey, how are you doing?"
"(Sniffle). Maria! They ruined Drew Barrymore's prom by throwing eggs at her! Then they tried dumping dog food on the nerdy girl, but Drew Barrymore stopped them! AND NOW, SHE'S GIVING A SPEECH."
"...What the fuck are you talking about?"
"(Sniffle). I'm w-w-watching 'N-Never Been Kissed...'"
Maria went on to explain that this guy I was crying over was an asshole and that chick flicks were gay. I love brutal honestly. And that's what I needed to hear.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Not So Free Hugs
A few weeks ago, I made a bad decision... again. My ex-long distance "boyfriend" called me.
"Core!" he yelled in his best impression of my mother who he's never met. "What are you doing next week?"
"School and work, same as usual... Why?"
"I'm gonna be in Boston Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday."
I almost spit out my coffee. "What? Really?"
"Yeah, I have this thing for school, and I'm visiting my friends at Northeastern. I was hoping we could hang out."
I was over the moon. I missed him. And I was seriously lacking in the "Male Attention Department," due to a particularly dramatic incident involving my getting dumped for someone who lives overseas. But I'm not here to judge people's life decisions (It's funny 'cause I'm lying. I'm totally here to judge people's life decisions).
Fate has a funny way of working. We decided on Monday afternoon to hang out, and I told him I'd make my way to Boston as soon as my classes were over. That's when an e-mail came through on my BlackBerry:
"From: RJohnson1
To: Screen and Teleplay Class
Subject: Class on Monday is Canceled
Please have Exercise 4 done for Wednesday."
I knew this was meant to be, and that e-mail was proof. First thing in the morning, I drove into Boston to meet up with the boy who had me head over heels in like last summer. I couldn't help but remember all our late night conversations. How we'd fall asleep on the phone together... My 20th Birthday when he called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me at midnight... And how he was the first (and to this day, only) boy to ever tell me he likes me.
My heart was racing and my head was swimming. Sadly, my internal organs get more exercise than I do.
Anyway, I saw him across the Barney's in Copley Square. It was kind of weird... but exhilarating at the same time. He helped me try on clothes I couldn't afford, and it was a grand old time!
The $575.00 pea coat I loved still haunts me to this day, however.
After walking and talking for what seemed like forever (and we could have gone on longer), we set up at the Starbucks in the mall. He pulled his sketchbook out of his notebook and showed me his designs. Sure, a gay fashion major isn't the most original college archetype, but please bear with me.
As the pages flipped, we moved closer and closer to each other. Absentmindedly (at least, that's what I tell myself to help me sleep better at night), I rested my hand on his chair. Taking the physical cues, he started brushing my hand here and there. But it wasn't in that "I'm stroking your hand to be cute" way, it was more like, "I'm wiping the dirt off your hand. You're welcome."
"...Am I in your way or something?" I asked.
"N-no," he hesistated. "I just wanted to hold your hand, that's all."
I laughed. "So why didn't you just say so? It's me, I'm not gonna be weird about it."
We locked hands and it felt right. Like how it used to be.
That's when a tall, skinny, homeless black man appeared in a basketball jersey (who resembled Snoop Dogg) and sat down with two frumpy white women at the next table.
"UH, EXCUSE ME, LADIES. CAN I SIT MY ASS HURRR?"
The two fat chicks looked at each other and nodded without a word in response. I couldn't help but laugh. That's when Bruce scolded me.
"Corey, quiet," he laughed and cracked a joke about Snoop Dogg busting a cap in my ass.
I find that laughing together is a deciding factor in a friendship. If your sense of humor is compatible with someone else's, you're meant to be. He smiled at me and we kissed.
...That's when the old man at the other adjacent table saw us, and stared wide-eyed in disgust.
"Bruce, look! That old man is so disgusted!"
"Whatever, Corey, he can deal."
"Oh, no, I'm not saying it's bad that we offended him. I think it's HILARIOUS." Bruce shook his head and laughed. A reaction I often get to anything I do.
From there, we continued our adventure on the streets of Boston. Turning onto Newbury Street, a large, homeless black man had a cardboard sign attached to his front and screamed and waved his arms ahead of us. Not wanting to get killed or molested, I averted my attention from him and gestured for Bruce to do the same.
...It was no use.
The homeless man caught us staring and said, "Look! I love these kinds of guys!" (Read: The Queers). I looked up at him with that "Deer in the Headlights" look and tried to keep walking. But he continued, "Come on! You're not afraid of black guys, are ya?!"
That was a challenge. I had two options. Ignore him and awkwardly run away... or speak to this man and not have him think I'm a racist. As a guilt-ridden, bleeding heart liberal, I chose the latter.
"Hi there."
"Hey, guys! I need some money for the retah-ded chilluns!" he announced. In order to get him out of our hair, I handed him a five-dollar bill. Bruce opened his wallet, too and rooted for change. "Yeah, yeah, five dollars from both of you would be good. I GOT CHANGE." Bruce handed over the money and the homeless man looked at us, touched by our generosity.
A few seconds later, I found myself engaged in a group hug with the boy I liked and a smelly, homeless person.
"Okay, bye," I said to the man as I pushed the boy down the street.
"...Corey, what just happened?"
"We just paid five dollars each for a hug from a homeless man."
"...Why?"
I put my arm around his shoulder. "You need to know something... This kind of stuff just happens to me. And I can't do anything about it."
The funny part? He never called me after that. But that was the best five dollar hug I've ever had.
"Core!" he yelled in his best impression of my mother who he's never met. "What are you doing next week?"
"School and work, same as usual... Why?"
"I'm gonna be in Boston Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday."
I almost spit out my coffee. "What? Really?"
"Yeah, I have this thing for school, and I'm visiting my friends at Northeastern. I was hoping we could hang out."
I was over the moon. I missed him. And I was seriously lacking in the "Male Attention Department," due to a particularly dramatic incident involving my getting dumped for someone who lives overseas. But I'm not here to judge people's life decisions (It's funny 'cause I'm lying. I'm totally here to judge people's life decisions).
Fate has a funny way of working. We decided on Monday afternoon to hang out, and I told him I'd make my way to Boston as soon as my classes were over. That's when an e-mail came through on my BlackBerry:
"From: RJohnson1
To: Screen and Teleplay Class
Subject: Class on Monday is Canceled
Please have Exercise 4 done for Wednesday."
I knew this was meant to be, and that e-mail was proof. First thing in the morning, I drove into Boston to meet up with the boy who had me head over heels in like last summer. I couldn't help but remember all our late night conversations. How we'd fall asleep on the phone together... My 20th Birthday when he called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me at midnight... And how he was the first (and to this day, only) boy to ever tell me he likes me.
My heart was racing and my head was swimming. Sadly, my internal organs get more exercise than I do.
Anyway, I saw him across the Barney's in Copley Square. It was kind of weird... but exhilarating at the same time. He helped me try on clothes I couldn't afford, and it was a grand old time!
The $575.00 pea coat I loved still haunts me to this day, however.
After walking and talking for what seemed like forever (and we could have gone on longer), we set up at the Starbucks in the mall. He pulled his sketchbook out of his notebook and showed me his designs. Sure, a gay fashion major isn't the most original college archetype, but please bear with me.
As the pages flipped, we moved closer and closer to each other. Absentmindedly (at least, that's what I tell myself to help me sleep better at night), I rested my hand on his chair. Taking the physical cues, he started brushing my hand here and there. But it wasn't in that "I'm stroking your hand to be cute" way, it was more like, "I'm wiping the dirt off your hand. You're welcome."
"...Am I in your way or something?" I asked.
"N-no," he hesistated. "I just wanted to hold your hand, that's all."
I laughed. "So why didn't you just say so? It's me, I'm not gonna be weird about it."
We locked hands and it felt right. Like how it used to be.
That's when a tall, skinny, homeless black man appeared in a basketball jersey (who resembled Snoop Dogg) and sat down with two frumpy white women at the next table.
"UH, EXCUSE ME, LADIES. CAN I SIT MY ASS HURRR?"
The two fat chicks looked at each other and nodded without a word in response. I couldn't help but laugh. That's when Bruce scolded me.
"Corey, quiet," he laughed and cracked a joke about Snoop Dogg busting a cap in my ass.
I find that laughing together is a deciding factor in a friendship. If your sense of humor is compatible with someone else's, you're meant to be. He smiled at me and we kissed.
...That's when the old man at the other adjacent table saw us, and stared wide-eyed in disgust.
"Bruce, look! That old man is so disgusted!"
"Whatever, Corey, he can deal."
"Oh, no, I'm not saying it's bad that we offended him. I think it's HILARIOUS." Bruce shook his head and laughed. A reaction I often get to anything I do.
From there, we continued our adventure on the streets of Boston. Turning onto Newbury Street, a large, homeless black man had a cardboard sign attached to his front and screamed and waved his arms ahead of us. Not wanting to get killed or molested, I averted my attention from him and gestured for Bruce to do the same.
...It was no use.
The homeless man caught us staring and said, "Look! I love these kinds of guys!" (Read: The Queers). I looked up at him with that "Deer in the Headlights" look and tried to keep walking. But he continued, "Come on! You're not afraid of black guys, are ya?!"
That was a challenge. I had two options. Ignore him and awkwardly run away... or speak to this man and not have him think I'm a racist. As a guilt-ridden, bleeding heart liberal, I chose the latter.
"Hi there."
"Hey, guys! I need some money for the retah-ded chilluns!" he announced. In order to get him out of our hair, I handed him a five-dollar bill. Bruce opened his wallet, too and rooted for change. "Yeah, yeah, five dollars from both of you would be good. I GOT CHANGE." Bruce handed over the money and the homeless man looked at us, touched by our generosity.
A few seconds later, I found myself engaged in a group hug with the boy I liked and a smelly, homeless person.
"Okay, bye," I said to the man as I pushed the boy down the street.
"...Corey, what just happened?"
"We just paid five dollars each for a hug from a homeless man."
"...Why?"
I put my arm around his shoulder. "You need to know something... This kind of stuff just happens to me. And I can't do anything about it."
The funny part? He never called me after that. But that was the best five dollar hug I've ever had.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Falling Off My High Horse
I'm sure that some people would kill to hear "You're so smart," or "You're so funny," just once in their lives. As a brilliant and hilarious person, I don't have that problem. Rather, I hate hearing it because you can only hear it so many times in one day and still believe it.
Since I was young, I've had this "problem" where everyone and their mom has to comment on what a great kid I am and how advanced I am in my general scholastic achievement (I just used big words there to be ironic). They say it's lonely at the top, and sometimes I feel like the most apt example of that to walk the streets of Framingham.
When I was 7 years old, my parents finally settled on a house. We had been moving from town to town, apartment to apartment. At one point, my grandmother's house was our home. Luckily, she had six kids, all but 2 who had fled the coop. So there were three floors of space and a pool for us to spend our days in. It was almost like being at a hotel, only without the army of Hispanic people cleaning up after us.
Anyway, a new house meant a new elementary school for me to attend. Having moved twice already, I was finding it hard to keep friends. Making them was a whole other story. When the boys won't stop calling you "a girl" and the girls hate you 'cause you always played with their favorite doll at recess and wouldn't share it, there really aren't many shoulders for you to cry on.
The same problems followed me into 2nd grade. A couple months into the school year, we were well into our journal projects, where we'd write about whatever we wanted for about 20 minutes every day. I happened to mention my address and the fact that I had just gone to Disney On Ice in one entry. My teacher, the nicest woman you'll ever meet, took it upon herself to force me into friendship with one of the other boys in the class.
"Corey," she cooed one day, "why don't you talk to Tom at recess? He just went to Disney On Ice too and he lives a couple streets over from you!"
Insecure, shy, and not knowing what lied ahead of me, I mustered up the courage to talk to him. Miraculously, we became fast friends and arranged to have playdates every Monday. Life was grand. ...Except for Wednesdays at recess.
"Tom, why weren't you at recess?" I asked one day, wanting to get to the bottom of my having been ditched.
"I was in SAGE."
"What's that?"
My 7 year old biffle went on to explain that SAGE was a program for "gifted" and "talented" kids. Not wanting to be left out, and believing myself to be the steamingest pile of hot shit, I wanted in. But I didn't know how to go about executing my master plan.
That said, fate has a funny way of working. One day, my teacher noticed my mental math and spelling prowess in class. She recommended me to be tested for this program and I was ELATED. I could be with my friend every Wednesday, and maybe even meet kids who were at my intellectual level!
One day during class, I was pulled into the SAGE office by a nice woman with a tragic haircut. She started asking me questions which had nothing to do with how smart I am.
For 20 minutes, I had to come up with an answer to: "What would you do if you had a billion dollars?"
"...I'd buy a big house," I said.
The woman looked disheartened. "Uh-huh. What else?"
"A puppy!"
"Yeah. And?"
"...A Nintendo?"
She was obviously trying to elicit some sort of intricate answer of how I would use the money to research stem cells and use them to bring Elvis back to life. Or some kind of scientific bullshit like that. Eventually, I was dismissed and went home, where I spent days eagerly awaiting my test results.
They came in one day in the mail. My mother opened them.
"Coah, what's this?" she asked.
"My SAGE test! How did I do?"
"...You didn't get in."
"WHAT?" I grabbed the piece of paper.
It said, "26/100" and went on to explain that I wasn't creative enough for their fancy gifted program. I'm plenty gifted, but apparently, you also have to be a nerd who reads "Scientific Weekly" or you have to be able to write a short story complete with complex metaphors for the state of the modern world in order to gain the opportunity for advanced public schooling.
So, I may not have gotten special treatment. But I developed social skills. And really, isn't that what matters?
Since I was young, I've had this "problem" where everyone and their mom has to comment on what a great kid I am and how advanced I am in my general scholastic achievement (I just used big words there to be ironic). They say it's lonely at the top, and sometimes I feel like the most apt example of that to walk the streets of Framingham.
When I was 7 years old, my parents finally settled on a house. We had been moving from town to town, apartment to apartment. At one point, my grandmother's house was our home. Luckily, she had six kids, all but 2 who had fled the coop. So there were three floors of space and a pool for us to spend our days in. It was almost like being at a hotel, only without the army of Hispanic people cleaning up after us.
Anyway, a new house meant a new elementary school for me to attend. Having moved twice already, I was finding it hard to keep friends. Making them was a whole other story. When the boys won't stop calling you "a girl" and the girls hate you 'cause you always played with their favorite doll at recess and wouldn't share it, there really aren't many shoulders for you to cry on.
The same problems followed me into 2nd grade. A couple months into the school year, we were well into our journal projects, where we'd write about whatever we wanted for about 20 minutes every day. I happened to mention my address and the fact that I had just gone to Disney On Ice in one entry. My teacher, the nicest woman you'll ever meet, took it upon herself to force me into friendship with one of the other boys in the class.
"Corey," she cooed one day, "why don't you talk to Tom at recess? He just went to Disney On Ice too and he lives a couple streets over from you!"
Insecure, shy, and not knowing what lied ahead of me, I mustered up the courage to talk to him. Miraculously, we became fast friends and arranged to have playdates every Monday. Life was grand. ...Except for Wednesdays at recess.
"Tom, why weren't you at recess?" I asked one day, wanting to get to the bottom of my having been ditched.
"I was in SAGE."
"What's that?"
My 7 year old biffle went on to explain that SAGE was a program for "gifted" and "talented" kids. Not wanting to be left out, and believing myself to be the steamingest pile of hot shit, I wanted in. But I didn't know how to go about executing my master plan.
That said, fate has a funny way of working. One day, my teacher noticed my mental math and spelling prowess in class. She recommended me to be tested for this program and I was ELATED. I could be with my friend every Wednesday, and maybe even meet kids who were at my intellectual level!
One day during class, I was pulled into the SAGE office by a nice woman with a tragic haircut. She started asking me questions which had nothing to do with how smart I am.
For 20 minutes, I had to come up with an answer to: "What would you do if you had a billion dollars?"
"...I'd buy a big house," I said.
The woman looked disheartened. "Uh-huh. What else?"
"A puppy!"
"Yeah. And?"
"...A Nintendo?"
She was obviously trying to elicit some sort of intricate answer of how I would use the money to research stem cells and use them to bring Elvis back to life. Or some kind of scientific bullshit like that. Eventually, I was dismissed and went home, where I spent days eagerly awaiting my test results.
They came in one day in the mail. My mother opened them.
"Coah, what's this?" she asked.
"My SAGE test! How did I do?"
"...You didn't get in."
"WHAT?" I grabbed the piece of paper.
It said, "26/100" and went on to explain that I wasn't creative enough for their fancy gifted program. I'm plenty gifted, but apparently, you also have to be a nerd who reads "Scientific Weekly" or you have to be able to write a short story complete with complex metaphors for the state of the modern world in order to gain the opportunity for advanced public schooling.
So, I may not have gotten special treatment. But I developed social skills. And really, isn't that what matters?
Monday, March 15, 2010
Are you there, God? It's an Underpaid, Gay Customer Service Rep.
As I've said before, being a greeter is a job that's not to be taken lightly. Especially when you're dealing with important customers in your business. You have to make sure their needs are all attended to and that they're happy with their visit to the establishment and plan on returning.
One day, a group of three nuns came to the movie theater to see "A Christmas Carol" in 3D. Maria and I were cleaning at the concessions counter when our walkie-talkies crackled to life with the voice of the greeter.
"Corey," the voice called for me in a sing-song way, "I have three elderly nuns that need an escort to the theater. Can you come down and help them?"
I looked at Maria and asked, "Why me?" I wondered first why I was singled out to help these women. Maria was just as capable of showing nuns where to go as I was. Also, Maria went to Catholic school and she (read: her family makes her) goes to church.
Then there's me, who lies with other men while taking the lord's name in vain.
I picked up the walkie-talkie and responded, "Okay, Amy, I'll be right down."
As I descended the escalator and made my way across the floor, I tried to visualize the possible scenarios awaiting me at the front door. I envisioned a gaggle of three, snarled, nasty Nuns. In my head, they wielded yard sticks. As I approached them in this reverie, they were able to smell the sin on me and whacked me upside the head. "Bad heathen! Bad sodomite! May you burn in Hell!" they would chant.
Turns out, I was wrong. They were actually really nice. Amy, the greeter brought me over to them and introduced us. The Nuns were clad in blue, unlike the scary black dresses I thought they'd be wearing.
"Hi!" the Head Nun cooed as she shook my hand. She introduced herself, her cohort, and then gestured to the Nun in the wheelchair. "This is Sister Nazarene! She has over 70 years of experience in the Nunnery!"
This statement made me think of what it would be like to be a virgin for almost 90 years. I thought 18 was bad. Oh, no. Sister Nazarene has it way worse. I wondered if she touches herself. Then I puked in my mouth a little because I started to think about old snatch.
Anyway, I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed Sister Nazarene through the halls and to the elevator which led up to the movie theater lobby. We had a lovely conversation on the way there.
"Where are you from, Corey?" Boss Nun asked me.
"Oh, just Framingham. Lived here most of my life."
"Are you going to school?"
"Yeah, I'm at Framingham State, studying film."
"Oh, how wonderful! Any plans after?"
"I want to go to law school."
"Well, we'll put you on our prayer list!" Boss Nun cooed.
I stopped dead in my tracks. "Oh yeah? Your prayer list?"
"Oh, yes! We always pray for those who help us, and everyone here has been so nice to us! Is there anything else you want? You should ask Sister Nazarene. She could pray for you!"
Sister Nazarene sat in her wheelchair, not saying a word. She barely moved or talked the whole time. I was afraid that she was dead, but still had to retain composure. I fought to keep a straight face, which I tend to have to do on a daily basis and said, "Oh, um, there's nothing I can think of right now, but thanks anyway."
"Just let us know! We'll pray for you," she insisted.
With that, the Nuns were on their way into the theater. I went back to Concessions, where Maria deservedly laughed at my tale.
"They put you on their prayer list?" she asked incredulously.
I had to imagine that their "prayer list" was a giant tome in which they write down people's names and desires. Having worked in a corporate retail environment for years, it seemed only plausible to write things down, file them away, and send them off to accounting for prompt follow-up.
"Corey used up all his wishes for the year," the Angel Accountant will announce as he stamps my application for a boyfriend with a big, red, "DENIED" stamp. "He can have mono instead."
One day, a group of three nuns came to the movie theater to see "A Christmas Carol" in 3D. Maria and I were cleaning at the concessions counter when our walkie-talkies crackled to life with the voice of the greeter.
"Corey," the voice called for me in a sing-song way, "I have three elderly nuns that need an escort to the theater. Can you come down and help them?"
I looked at Maria and asked, "Why me?" I wondered first why I was singled out to help these women. Maria was just as capable of showing nuns where to go as I was. Also, Maria went to Catholic school and she (read: her family makes her) goes to church.
Then there's me, who lies with other men while taking the lord's name in vain.
I picked up the walkie-talkie and responded, "Okay, Amy, I'll be right down."
As I descended the escalator and made my way across the floor, I tried to visualize the possible scenarios awaiting me at the front door. I envisioned a gaggle of three, snarled, nasty Nuns. In my head, they wielded yard sticks. As I approached them in this reverie, they were able to smell the sin on me and whacked me upside the head. "Bad heathen! Bad sodomite! May you burn in Hell!" they would chant.
Turns out, I was wrong. They were actually really nice. Amy, the greeter brought me over to them and introduced us. The Nuns were clad in blue, unlike the scary black dresses I thought they'd be wearing.
"Hi!" the Head Nun cooed as she shook my hand. She introduced herself, her cohort, and then gestured to the Nun in the wheelchair. "This is Sister Nazarene! She has over 70 years of experience in the Nunnery!"
This statement made me think of what it would be like to be a virgin for almost 90 years. I thought 18 was bad. Oh, no. Sister Nazarene has it way worse. I wondered if she touches herself. Then I puked in my mouth a little because I started to think about old snatch.
Anyway, I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed Sister Nazarene through the halls and to the elevator which led up to the movie theater lobby. We had a lovely conversation on the way there.
"Where are you from, Corey?" Boss Nun asked me.
"Oh, just Framingham. Lived here most of my life."
"Are you going to school?"
"Yeah, I'm at Framingham State, studying film."
"Oh, how wonderful! Any plans after?"
"I want to go to law school."
"Well, we'll put you on our prayer list!" Boss Nun cooed.
I stopped dead in my tracks. "Oh yeah? Your prayer list?"
"Oh, yes! We always pray for those who help us, and everyone here has been so nice to us! Is there anything else you want? You should ask Sister Nazarene. She could pray for you!"
Sister Nazarene sat in her wheelchair, not saying a word. She barely moved or talked the whole time. I was afraid that she was dead, but still had to retain composure. I fought to keep a straight face, which I tend to have to do on a daily basis and said, "Oh, um, there's nothing I can think of right now, but thanks anyway."
"Just let us know! We'll pray for you," she insisted.
With that, the Nuns were on their way into the theater. I went back to Concessions, where Maria deservedly laughed at my tale.
"They put you on their prayer list?" she asked incredulously.
I had to imagine that their "prayer list" was a giant tome in which they write down people's names and desires. Having worked in a corporate retail environment for years, it seemed only plausible to write things down, file them away, and send them off to accounting for prompt follow-up.
"Corey used up all his wishes for the year," the Angel Accountant will announce as he stamps my application for a boyfriend with a big, red, "DENIED" stamp. "He can have mono instead."
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Grocery Store Employees Are a Hoot.
As I've become more independent from my family in adulthood, I've started doing my own grocery shopping and running my own errands. The feeling of earning my keep is rewarding. What's not rewarding, however, are the painful experiences I've had with several grocery store employees at the store down the street.
I started to notice this trend of less than sane people ringing up my food when I was a freshman in college. I went to the grocery store one morning because:
1. There's a Dunkin' Donuts inside and coffee was calling my name that morning and...
2. I needed to pick up something for my lunch that day, not wanting to spend an inordinate amount of money on sub par school food.
I approached the front of the store, where a tiny black man with a tiny head and an angry look was glaring at a man in a suit.
"Why are you standing out here in the rain?" Mr. Business Man asked.
"I LIKE DA RAIN!" retorted Mini Mr. T.
"But you could catch a cold!"
"I LIKE DA CO'D."
I stared in awe of his brutal honestly. I consider myself very open and willing to tell it like it is, but this guy made me look painfully shy. Scared of this tiny, angry man, I snuck into the Stop and Shop and made my way to my first destination: The coffee shop.
The Dunkin's counter girl, or as I affectionately called her, "Brace Face," screamed, "HELP YOU NEXT?" in her lispy, broken English. I ordered my medium iced coffee with extra skim and regular sugar with a styrofoam cup and happily ventured deeper into the heart of Stop and Shop.
I picked up a bag of Goldfish as a snack to munch on throughout the day, among other portable lunch items, and made my way over to the one open cash register. I understand that it was 7:45 in the morning, but be prepared for the morning rush, people! The cashier scanned and re-scanned the same can of soup for a good two minutes because the machine wouldn't read the bar code. That's what manual UPC entry is for, honey.
It was then that I felt a presence behind me. I have a sixth sense for whether or not I'll like someone in my general vicinity. Some call it "being judgmental," I call it being a good judge of character. I sensed something creepy behind me, and so, I turned around to investigate. Turns out, it was a little old woman with long, dirty hair which looked like she hadn't washed the goop out of it for three years.
"I'm collecting all the baskets!" she announced.
My eye twitched a little at her odor. "...That's nice," I responded.
Now that I think of it, I had strange run-ins at that Stop and Shop even before college. When Dad was undergoing radiation therapy for his prostate cancer, my mom would ask me to help her grocery shop every week. I was about 15 years old. One Monday night, she picked me up after she left work so we could get some goodies for the week ahead.
We completed our shopping adventure for the most part and all that was left was to check out. Mommie Dearest and I entered a line and waited. Usually, my mother is good at picking the quickest lines. Having worked in a grocery store from 14 years old to 26, she believes she has developed a 6th sense for the quickest ways in and out of a grocery store. She also pushes the baggers out of the way and bags the groceries herself so that they don't "SQUASH THE BREAD."
Oh, and don't forget: "Coah, frozen goes with frozen! Keep all the cold stuff togethah!"
In this particular instance, my mother's supernatural grocery store powers led us astray. We stood in line for about ten minutes, when my mother and her Irish Whisper went to work and screamed, "What is this chick, retahded?"
"Mom, Jesus Christ!" I snapped. "I'm sure that the cashier can HEAR YOU."
"Coah, when I was a cashi-ah, I was the fastest cashi-ah in the stoah. My totals at the end of the night were always high-ah than everyone else's!"
I waved off my mother's recollection of her glory days at the grocery store and waited for the cashier to assist us. She said hi and seemed nice enough. But then, she stopped in the middle of ringing up a box of cookies and said, "I wish I could do this under water."
Mommie Dearest and I were floored. "What?" I asked. "Under water?"
"Yeah, I'm swimming in the Special Olympics," she explained, "so I apply everything I do to being under water! I'm the only girl going to Hong Kong!" A glazed look appeared in her eyes as she drifted off into fantasies about swimming with the dolphins.
Meanwhile, Lois and I were shocked that she actually WAS retahded. I could tell that, for once, my mother knew she was in the wrong by the horrified look on her face. I walked away to visit the Dunkin' Donuts. I knew that if I remained there any longer, I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. I mean, I can't keep a STRAIGHT face, anyway, but work with me here.
When I returned, the transaction had ended and the groceries were bagged and in the cart. "Have a nice night," the cashier said.
My mother brushed her off and mumbled, "You too."
But the special cashier didn't hear my mother and snapped, "I SAID, 'HAVE A NICE NIGHT!'"
"I SAID, 'YOU TOO,'" my mother retorted.
And that was the story of the time my mother yelled at a retarded woman.
I started to notice this trend of less than sane people ringing up my food when I was a freshman in college. I went to the grocery store one morning because:
1. There's a Dunkin' Donuts inside and coffee was calling my name that morning and...
2. I needed to pick up something for my lunch that day, not wanting to spend an inordinate amount of money on sub par school food.
I approached the front of the store, where a tiny black man with a tiny head and an angry look was glaring at a man in a suit.
"Why are you standing out here in the rain?" Mr. Business Man asked.
"I LIKE DA RAIN!" retorted Mini Mr. T.
"But you could catch a cold!"
"I LIKE DA CO'D."
I stared in awe of his brutal honestly. I consider myself very open and willing to tell it like it is, but this guy made me look painfully shy. Scared of this tiny, angry man, I snuck into the Stop and Shop and made my way to my first destination: The coffee shop.
The Dunkin's counter girl, or as I affectionately called her, "Brace Face," screamed, "HELP YOU NEXT?" in her lispy, broken English. I ordered my medium iced coffee with extra skim and regular sugar with a styrofoam cup and happily ventured deeper into the heart of Stop and Shop.
I picked up a bag of Goldfish as a snack to munch on throughout the day, among other portable lunch items, and made my way over to the one open cash register. I understand that it was 7:45 in the morning, but be prepared for the morning rush, people! The cashier scanned and re-scanned the same can of soup for a good two minutes because the machine wouldn't read the bar code. That's what manual UPC entry is for, honey.
It was then that I felt a presence behind me. I have a sixth sense for whether or not I'll like someone in my general vicinity. Some call it "being judgmental," I call it being a good judge of character. I sensed something creepy behind me, and so, I turned around to investigate. Turns out, it was a little old woman with long, dirty hair which looked like she hadn't washed the goop out of it for three years.
"I'm collecting all the baskets!" she announced.
My eye twitched a little at her odor. "...That's nice," I responded.
Now that I think of it, I had strange run-ins at that Stop and Shop even before college. When Dad was undergoing radiation therapy for his prostate cancer, my mom would ask me to help her grocery shop every week. I was about 15 years old. One Monday night, she picked me up after she left work so we could get some goodies for the week ahead.
We completed our shopping adventure for the most part and all that was left was to check out. Mommie Dearest and I entered a line and waited. Usually, my mother is good at picking the quickest lines. Having worked in a grocery store from 14 years old to 26, she believes she has developed a 6th sense for the quickest ways in and out of a grocery store. She also pushes the baggers out of the way and bags the groceries herself so that they don't "SQUASH THE BREAD."
Oh, and don't forget: "Coah, frozen goes with frozen! Keep all the cold stuff togethah!"
In this particular instance, my mother's supernatural grocery store powers led us astray. We stood in line for about ten minutes, when my mother and her Irish Whisper went to work and screamed, "What is this chick, retahded?"
"Mom, Jesus Christ!" I snapped. "I'm sure that the cashier can HEAR YOU."
"Coah, when I was a cashi-ah, I was the fastest cashi-ah in the stoah. My totals at the end of the night were always high-ah than everyone else's!"
I waved off my mother's recollection of her glory days at the grocery store and waited for the cashier to assist us. She said hi and seemed nice enough. But then, she stopped in the middle of ringing up a box of cookies and said, "I wish I could do this under water."
Mommie Dearest and I were floored. "What?" I asked. "Under water?"
"Yeah, I'm swimming in the Special Olympics," she explained, "so I apply everything I do to being under water! I'm the only girl going to Hong Kong!" A glazed look appeared in her eyes as she drifted off into fantasies about swimming with the dolphins.
Meanwhile, Lois and I were shocked that she actually WAS retahded. I could tell that, for once, my mother knew she was in the wrong by the horrified look on her face. I walked away to visit the Dunkin' Donuts. I knew that if I remained there any longer, I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. I mean, I can't keep a STRAIGHT face, anyway, but work with me here.
When I returned, the transaction had ended and the groceries were bagged and in the cart. "Have a nice night," the cashier said.
My mother brushed her off and mumbled, "You too."
But the special cashier didn't hear my mother and snapped, "I SAID, 'HAVE A NICE NIGHT!'"
"I SAID, 'YOU TOO,'" my mother retorted.
And that was the story of the time my mother yelled at a retarded woman.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Another Instance of Me Making an Ass of Myself
It was a Saturday. Excitement was in the air of the movie theater. Not because we were working and it was busy, but because that night, those of us 18 years old and older were going to tour the Cambridge bar scene and to see our manager's band play at one of the bars.
The car was due to leave the theater at 8:00. I arrived promptly at 7:55 (because I offered to drive us in the convertible, may it rest in peace) with my hurr did (in a fauxhawk! Stylin'!), and my clothes were bangin' (graphic tee and jeans that give me some semblance of an ass). Maria, Angela and Katie meandered over to the golden car (I'm crying as I write this) and we were off.
But we weren't on the highway long, when cries of, "I'm hunnnnngry!" emanated from the backseat. I turned off the Mass Pike to go to a rest stop with TWO drive-throughs! We stopped first at McDonald's. As the driver, I was in charge of ordering. Katie very politely told me her order, Angela politely declined, and Maria climbed over my seat, shoved her head through the window and screamed, "DO YOU HAVE ANY HASHBROWNS?!"
Once the drive-through worker's ears stopped bleeding, he said, "No, we only have those at breakfast." At this point, it was 8:30. At night.
"What do you MEAN, 'You don't have any hashbrowns?!'" Maria continued berating the drive-through employee.
I butted in,"...and a large order of french fries."
We picked up our food and the occupants of the Fagmobile (Waaah!) clamored for coffee. So, we went to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through next door.
"Do you think the McDonald's is gonna call Dunkin's and warn them that there's a car full of assholes coming their way?" Katie asked. I had to laugh at her summation of the behavior of my friends. Young adults? More like old kids.
We eventually stopped harassing minimum-wage earning fast food workers. After I went the wrong way down a one-way path, we were back on the highway on the way to Boston. Maria was playing DJ and we decided on "Disturbia" by Rihanna as our song of choice. Car rides with me are often very musical and involve white girls (which is a term that includes myself) dancing.
This song always reminds me of driving to Boston, anyway:
1. Because the chorus has a line about driving through a city.
And 2. One night, on the way home from meeting some friends in Boston, I had the top of the Mustang down as I pulled up to a stoplight. "Disturbia" was the song playing at a loud volume when a taxi pulled up next to me. This taxi was filled with old, drunk, gay guys. The one in the backseat on the passenger's side rolled down his window and screamed, "Haaaay! My friend wantsth to talk to youuuu!" The old queen's friend hung his head in shame. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've received attention from men who are old enough to be my father.
Anyway, we parked the car and entered the bar. Two large "x"'s were drawn on my hand and the mingling began. We saw old friends and had the time of our lives, while the other three people in this bar (on a Saturday night, remember) listened to the lonely girl on stage perform an acoustic cover of "Cry Me a River" by Justin Timberlake. It was almost sad, as if she were actually asking us to cry her a river for her lack of talent. I can almost guarantee you she cried a river when she got home, due to the sparse amount of applause she received.
Our friends Sarah and Sarah stepped in next, already in a state of advanced inebriation. I pulled out a 5 dollar bill to buy a drink, which was fascinating to Sarah D., due to the size of the purple "5."
"It's just like... FIVE!" she remarked.
I turned away from her drunk spectacle and watched Liam's band's set. They played a great show with lots of energy and we congratulated him after. Everyone settled in for the next act: A Screamo band from New Hampshire. ...Okay.
I watched their set with a new focus. Liam caught me staring. "Are you checking out the drummer?" he asked, pointing out the unattractive drummer with long, greasy hair and no shirt on.
"No," I said, "the guy who keeps posing with the guitar." My friends, disgusted with my unusual timidity with guys, eventually threatened to go talk to him for me. Luckily, they didn't have to get up! He came by our table to buy an EP from Liam.
Before I continue, let me explain something. Sarah L. is one of my best friends. So I mean it with love when I say that she has very little tact when she's sober, let alone when she's hammered.
"Hey! SIT DOWN!" she commanded, motioning for him to sit down between us. She chatted him up and tried to get me to join in the conversation. But I was hesitant, because I couldn't tell which team the tall, dark and handsome bassist played for.
I later found out, after googling his band (and telling the band's facebook that the bassist is totally cute), that he was engaged to the lead singer. Who is a girl. Needless to say, I hung my head in shame.
Our group ran into the bassist a year later at a different bar for a different show. I could tell that he recognized me, due to the fact that he kept shooting me creeped out looks all night. In my defense, his band got up on stage and performed a hardcore cover of "Paparazzi" by Lady GaGa, which is about as gay as it gets.
Liam's band was headlining that night. While I was still feeling kind of awkward in the crowd, no one was more awkward than the two gay guy-one Asian lady sandwich on the dancefloor at the end of the set. So I felt a little better.
The car was due to leave the theater at 8:00. I arrived promptly at 7:55 (because I offered to drive us in the convertible, may it rest in peace) with my hurr did (in a fauxhawk! Stylin'!), and my clothes were bangin' (graphic tee and jeans that give me some semblance of an ass). Maria, Angela and Katie meandered over to the golden car (I'm crying as I write this) and we were off.
But we weren't on the highway long, when cries of, "I'm hunnnnngry!" emanated from the backseat. I turned off the Mass Pike to go to a rest stop with TWO drive-throughs! We stopped first at McDonald's. As the driver, I was in charge of ordering. Katie very politely told me her order, Angela politely declined, and Maria climbed over my seat, shoved her head through the window and screamed, "DO YOU HAVE ANY HASHBROWNS?!"
Once the drive-through worker's ears stopped bleeding, he said, "No, we only have those at breakfast." At this point, it was 8:30. At night.
"What do you MEAN, 'You don't have any hashbrowns?!'" Maria continued berating the drive-through employee.
I butted in,"...and a large order of french fries."
We picked up our food and the occupants of the Fagmobile (Waaah!) clamored for coffee. So, we went to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through next door.
"Do you think the McDonald's is gonna call Dunkin's and warn them that there's a car full of assholes coming their way?" Katie asked. I had to laugh at her summation of the behavior of my friends. Young adults? More like old kids.
We eventually stopped harassing minimum-wage earning fast food workers. After I went the wrong way down a one-way path, we were back on the highway on the way to Boston. Maria was playing DJ and we decided on "Disturbia" by Rihanna as our song of choice. Car rides with me are often very musical and involve white girls (which is a term that includes myself) dancing.
This song always reminds me of driving to Boston, anyway:
1. Because the chorus has a line about driving through a city.
And 2. One night, on the way home from meeting some friends in Boston, I had the top of the Mustang down as I pulled up to a stoplight. "Disturbia" was the song playing at a loud volume when a taxi pulled up next to me. This taxi was filled with old, drunk, gay guys. The one in the backseat on the passenger's side rolled down his window and screamed, "Haaaay! My friend wantsth to talk to youuuu!" The old queen's friend hung his head in shame. Sadly, this isn't the first time I've received attention from men who are old enough to be my father.
Anyway, we parked the car and entered the bar. Two large "x"'s were drawn on my hand and the mingling began. We saw old friends and had the time of our lives, while the other three people in this bar (on a Saturday night, remember) listened to the lonely girl on stage perform an acoustic cover of "Cry Me a River" by Justin Timberlake. It was almost sad, as if she were actually asking us to cry her a river for her lack of talent. I can almost guarantee you she cried a river when she got home, due to the sparse amount of applause she received.
Our friends Sarah and Sarah stepped in next, already in a state of advanced inebriation. I pulled out a 5 dollar bill to buy a drink, which was fascinating to Sarah D., due to the size of the purple "5."
"It's just like... FIVE!" she remarked.
I turned away from her drunk spectacle and watched Liam's band's set. They played a great show with lots of energy and we congratulated him after. Everyone settled in for the next act: A Screamo band from New Hampshire. ...Okay.
I watched their set with a new focus. Liam caught me staring. "Are you checking out the drummer?" he asked, pointing out the unattractive drummer with long, greasy hair and no shirt on.
"No," I said, "the guy who keeps posing with the guitar." My friends, disgusted with my unusual timidity with guys, eventually threatened to go talk to him for me. Luckily, they didn't have to get up! He came by our table to buy an EP from Liam.
Before I continue, let me explain something. Sarah L. is one of my best friends. So I mean it with love when I say that she has very little tact when she's sober, let alone when she's hammered.
"Hey! SIT DOWN!" she commanded, motioning for him to sit down between us. She chatted him up and tried to get me to join in the conversation. But I was hesitant, because I couldn't tell which team the tall, dark and handsome bassist played for.
I later found out, after googling his band (and telling the band's facebook that the bassist is totally cute), that he was engaged to the lead singer. Who is a girl. Needless to say, I hung my head in shame.
Our group ran into the bassist a year later at a different bar for a different show. I could tell that he recognized me, due to the fact that he kept shooting me creeped out looks all night. In my defense, his band got up on stage and performed a hardcore cover of "Paparazzi" by Lady GaGa, which is about as gay as it gets.
Liam's band was headlining that night. While I was still feeling kind of awkward in the crowd, no one was more awkward than the two gay guy-one Asian lady sandwich on the dancefloor at the end of the set. So I felt a little better.
Diary of a High-Maintenance Man Bitch
Picking up my little brother home from my old middle school, I heard an alarm go off.
"Is that the fire alarm?" I asked.
Nonplussed, he responded, "I don't know."
It made me think back to my middle school experience. And how much I hated it. And everyone there. I would get relentlessly followed around by a girl with a green tooth, and everyone wanted to know if we were going out. Funny how that turned out...
I also knew a kid who was convinced that the public school system was a conspiracy designed by the government to feed us radioactive cafeteria food for an impending nuclear war.
I shit you not.
But back to the fire alarm... There was one time when someone pulled the fire alarm on a cold, rainy day. Everyone was excited to be out of class for 45 minutes while the school's administration investigated the matter. As for me?
"Are we doing this right now?"
"Corey, why are you covering your ears?"
"'Cause that alarm is so god damn loud! Also, I'm FREEZING. This sucks."
Old, whiny habits die hard.
"Is that the fire alarm?" I asked.
Nonplussed, he responded, "I don't know."
It made me think back to my middle school experience. And how much I hated it. And everyone there. I would get relentlessly followed around by a girl with a green tooth, and everyone wanted to know if we were going out. Funny how that turned out...
I also knew a kid who was convinced that the public school system was a conspiracy designed by the government to feed us radioactive cafeteria food for an impending nuclear war.
I shit you not.
But back to the fire alarm... There was one time when someone pulled the fire alarm on a cold, rainy day. Everyone was excited to be out of class for 45 minutes while the school's administration investigated the matter. As for me?
"Are we doing this right now?"
"Corey, why are you covering your ears?"
"'Cause that alarm is so god damn loud! Also, I'm FREEZING. This sucks."
Old, whiny habits die hard.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Technology and My Family (Part 4)
Ever since I got my Blackberry, I've had the internet, texting and e-mail at my fingertips. Sometimes this isn't such a great thing. Case in point:
From: Mom
Date: Thu, 18 Feb 2010 13:38:34 -0500
To: Corey
Subject: Re: What uppp!
Hello My Darling,
I have had a rather long week and I believe that I will need to commemorate Thirsty Thursday...because I missed Ash Wednesday yesterday. I do not want to miss two holy days in a row !!!!
Thank you,
Lois Saunders
From: Mom
Date: Thu, 18 Feb 2010 13:38:34 -0500
To: Corey
Subject: Re: What uppp!
Hello My Darling,
I have had a rather long week and I believe that I will need to commemorate Thirsty Thursday...because I missed Ash Wednesday yesterday. I do not want to miss two holy days in a row !!!!
Thank you,
Lois Saunders
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sign of the Times.
Every semester, I impatiently wait for a check from school. The banks always give us poor people more money in loans than we need, in case tuition goes up or some other financial issue arises. But that never happens, so the school always cuts me a check for a few hundred dollars and sends me on my way.
The other day, I came home and sorted through the mailbox. There it was: A letter from Framingham State College. Surely, this was a big, fat, $400 check! My credit card company would be thrilled!
I opened up the letter.
"Dear Edward,
You made the President's List for getting good grades. Blah blah blah.
President Guy"
I tossed the letter aside. My dad asked, "Corey, what does that letter say?"
"Pssht, I made President's List."
"Coah, that's great!"
"But it's not MONEY."
The other day, I came home and sorted through the mailbox. There it was: A letter from Framingham State College. Surely, this was a big, fat, $400 check! My credit card company would be thrilled!
I opened up the letter.
"Dear Edward,
You made the President's List for getting good grades. Blah blah blah.
President Guy"
I tossed the letter aside. My dad asked, "Corey, what does that letter say?"
"Pssht, I made President's List."
"Coah, that's great!"
"But it's not MONEY."
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Girls (and Homos) Just Wanna Have Fun
Have you ever tried to survive in a long-distance relationship? Don't bother. I tried, in my wild youth (okay, last summer). It was terrible. I found that regular contact is key. Not just the phone, but in person contact, too.
After a late-night phone call, in which I was told not to wait for my pseudo-boyfriend (read: DUMPED), I was in bad shape. That's when I was asked to make an appearance at a gay bar by one of my... "contacts," I guess you could call him. I accepted the offer, citing a necessity to "blow off some steam."
"You should totally come," he said. "I'm bringing my friends from boy scout camp for karaoke night."
"...You're bringing boy scouts to a gay bar?"
"Yep! So?"
"...Are they gay?"
"Nope!"
"And do they know it's a gay bar?"
"We're not telling two of them, just to see their reactions."
Not only is this boy a malicious prankster, he's gay, a boy scout, and the son of a Baptist pastor. Absorb the irony. I still haven't.
The night of this hot mess arrived and I made my way to the club, dressed in my gayest. I was ready to party (read: attempt to dance, make a fool of myself, and get judged by skinny queens who ask each other, "Why is Rosie O'Donnell dancing with us?").
I met him on the stairs on the way into the bar, where the bouncer (a.k.a. Skinny Queen #42) was checking IDs. He gave me a huge hug and took a swig from his Vitamin Water, which was very obviously mixed with some sort of liquor.
We made small talk up the winding staircase until we reached the 3rd floor, where the Karaoke festivities were taking place. "Everyone," the boy, who shall remain nameless, started, "this is Corey."
"COR-AAAYYYY!" the obviously intoxicated boy scouts cheered. They all introduced themselves and acted very cordial. We chatted for a bit, until the boy and I moved out to the staircase for a more private chat. I was thankful. All the boy scouts discussed were girls, sports, and pocket knives. I had NOTHING to contribute.
It was then that the boy turned his back and walked away from me without a word. "Hey, don't leave me here!" I snapped. He beckoned me toward him with his finger. Due to the fact that I'm an airhead who thinks I'm smarter than I really am, I couldn't figure out why we'd be leaving the karaoke party and instead going down to the level of the bar with no one else around.
Before I could process what was going on, I noticed that I had been thrown up against a wall with a tongue in my mouth that wasn't mine. "...Ohhh," is what went through my head. Not a minute into the hardcore make out sesh, Skinny Queen #3081 and Skinny Queen #5 came running up the stairs behind us and bumped into us, killing the moment.
The boy smiled at me. "Corey, you were supposed to warn me if that was gonna happen!"
Indignantly, I responded, "I don't know about you, but I don't make out WITH MY EYES OPEN!" That statement has since made me ponder the implications of open-eye kissing. I envision it, and it's SO creepy! Think about it.
We actually discussed this matter at lunch one day at the law office.
"Corey," Sue said, "that's not really that weird."
"Yes, it is!" I shot back. "When your eyes are open while kissing, you can't HELP but look like a molester."
Nancy and Sue stared at me for a minute and subsequently went back to eating their salads. I guess I don't choose my battles very well.
Anyway, the boy got off of me and went to check out the men's room. The lower brain eventually beat out the upper one and he led me into the stall. I was wildly attracted to him, but wasn't sure if giving up my intended career in the law for one night of lewd acts in public was worth it. Then I figured that this was a gay bar, and far worse things than kissing and fondling have transpired in this very bathroom.
Things progressed, and toward the end, the music emanating from the club slowly started to register with me. I felt the techno beats pounding through the walls and the lyrics became clear as we exited the bathroom.
"Whoa, no, I do not hook up, up," Kelly Clarkson's voice belted.
I stopped in my tracks and asked, "Do you HEAR that?!"
"What?" the boy asked.
"They're playing 'I Do Not Hook Up,'" I said, emphasizing the irony with my voice.
"...No way," he laughed.
"Yeah, listen."
Kelly went on to rub it in my face that she "goes slow" and that if I want her, she "doesn't come cheap." It seemed as if Karma was, once again, rubbing the absurdity that is my life in my face. But the stickiness of the situation doesn't end there. We returned to the bar room, where the boy scouts were proud to show me the picture they had taken of my feet and the boy's feet under the stall door. Days later, I was tagged in said picture and it circulated around Facebook.
I wasn't so much worried about that, however, as I was worried about what a mess my life really is sometimes. Case in point: We left the club and he kissed me goodbye. We were about to part ways, when an old, beat up Lincoln with the front-end bouncing pulled up outside the bar. Loud, hip-hop music blared from the speakers as the windows rolled down. Through the open window, I saw a young woman, who I affectionately nicknamed "Shanaynay." She was accompanied by her friends, Shaniqua, Latisha and Keesha.
"Hayyyy, boys! How you doin'?" Shanaynay asked us, as if she were Wendy Williams in the flesh.
"We good, how you girls doin'?" the boy asked Shanaynay and her band of Dream Girls.
"We good! Y'all keep partyin'!" the bad stereotypes cheered as they drunkenly drove away. I debated checking the newspapers the next day for a headline along the lines of: "Four Dead in Drunk Driving Accident. Friends Say They 'Partied All Night Long,'" but I decided to leave that one alone.
The text message that went out to my girl friends after that read: "Just hooked up in a gay bar, while 'I Do Not Hook Up' played in the background. New low?"
The responses?
"Yeah! Get some!"
"Did he have a fat deck?"
"Good for u lovie!"
It was at this point that I decided to re-evaluate my morals, in the style of Bridget Jones's Diary:
"I will:
Make good choices.
"I will not:
Do anything stupid.
Do anything illegal.
Get used."
It works in theory. Practice is a whole other story.
After a late-night phone call, in which I was told not to wait for my pseudo-boyfriend (read: DUMPED), I was in bad shape. That's when I was asked to make an appearance at a gay bar by one of my... "contacts," I guess you could call him. I accepted the offer, citing a necessity to "blow off some steam."
"You should totally come," he said. "I'm bringing my friends from boy scout camp for karaoke night."
"...You're bringing boy scouts to a gay bar?"
"Yep! So?"
"...Are they gay?"
"Nope!"
"And do they know it's a gay bar?"
"We're not telling two of them, just to see their reactions."
Not only is this boy a malicious prankster, he's gay, a boy scout, and the son of a Baptist pastor. Absorb the irony. I still haven't.
The night of this hot mess arrived and I made my way to the club, dressed in my gayest. I was ready to party (read: attempt to dance, make a fool of myself, and get judged by skinny queens who ask each other, "Why is Rosie O'Donnell dancing with us?").
I met him on the stairs on the way into the bar, where the bouncer (a.k.a. Skinny Queen #42) was checking IDs. He gave me a huge hug and took a swig from his Vitamin Water, which was very obviously mixed with some sort of liquor.
We made small talk up the winding staircase until we reached the 3rd floor, where the Karaoke festivities were taking place. "Everyone," the boy, who shall remain nameless, started, "this is Corey."
"COR-AAAYYYY!" the obviously intoxicated boy scouts cheered. They all introduced themselves and acted very cordial. We chatted for a bit, until the boy and I moved out to the staircase for a more private chat. I was thankful. All the boy scouts discussed were girls, sports, and pocket knives. I had NOTHING to contribute.
It was then that the boy turned his back and walked away from me without a word. "Hey, don't leave me here!" I snapped. He beckoned me toward him with his finger. Due to the fact that I'm an airhead who thinks I'm smarter than I really am, I couldn't figure out why we'd be leaving the karaoke party and instead going down to the level of the bar with no one else around.
Before I could process what was going on, I noticed that I had been thrown up against a wall with a tongue in my mouth that wasn't mine. "...Ohhh," is what went through my head. Not a minute into the hardcore make out sesh, Skinny Queen #3081 and Skinny Queen #5 came running up the stairs behind us and bumped into us, killing the moment.
The boy smiled at me. "Corey, you were supposed to warn me if that was gonna happen!"
Indignantly, I responded, "I don't know about you, but I don't make out WITH MY EYES OPEN!" That statement has since made me ponder the implications of open-eye kissing. I envision it, and it's SO creepy! Think about it.
We actually discussed this matter at lunch one day at the law office.
"Corey," Sue said, "that's not really that weird."
"Yes, it is!" I shot back. "When your eyes are open while kissing, you can't HELP but look like a molester."
Nancy and Sue stared at me for a minute and subsequently went back to eating their salads. I guess I don't choose my battles very well.
Anyway, the boy got off of me and went to check out the men's room. The lower brain eventually beat out the upper one and he led me into the stall. I was wildly attracted to him, but wasn't sure if giving up my intended career in the law for one night of lewd acts in public was worth it. Then I figured that this was a gay bar, and far worse things than kissing and fondling have transpired in this very bathroom.
Things progressed, and toward the end, the music emanating from the club slowly started to register with me. I felt the techno beats pounding through the walls and the lyrics became clear as we exited the bathroom.
"Whoa, no, I do not hook up, up," Kelly Clarkson's voice belted.
I stopped in my tracks and asked, "Do you HEAR that?!"
"What?" the boy asked.
"They're playing 'I Do Not Hook Up,'" I said, emphasizing the irony with my voice.
"...No way," he laughed.
"Yeah, listen."
Kelly went on to rub it in my face that she "goes slow" and that if I want her, she "doesn't come cheap." It seemed as if Karma was, once again, rubbing the absurdity that is my life in my face. But the stickiness of the situation doesn't end there. We returned to the bar room, where the boy scouts were proud to show me the picture they had taken of my feet and the boy's feet under the stall door. Days later, I was tagged in said picture and it circulated around Facebook.
I wasn't so much worried about that, however, as I was worried about what a mess my life really is sometimes. Case in point: We left the club and he kissed me goodbye. We were about to part ways, when an old, beat up Lincoln with the front-end bouncing pulled up outside the bar. Loud, hip-hop music blared from the speakers as the windows rolled down. Through the open window, I saw a young woman, who I affectionately nicknamed "Shanaynay." She was accompanied by her friends, Shaniqua, Latisha and Keesha.
"Hayyyy, boys! How you doin'?" Shanaynay asked us, as if she were Wendy Williams in the flesh.
"We good, how you girls doin'?" the boy asked Shanaynay and her band of Dream Girls.
"We good! Y'all keep partyin'!" the bad stereotypes cheered as they drunkenly drove away. I debated checking the newspapers the next day for a headline along the lines of: "Four Dead in Drunk Driving Accident. Friends Say They 'Partied All Night Long,'" but I decided to leave that one alone.
The text message that went out to my girl friends after that read: "Just hooked up in a gay bar, while 'I Do Not Hook Up' played in the background. New low?"
The responses?
"Yeah! Get some!"
"Did he have a fat deck?"
"Good for u lovie!"
It was at this point that I decided to re-evaluate my morals, in the style of Bridget Jones's Diary:
"I will:
Make good choices.
"I will not:
Do anything stupid.
Do anything illegal.
Get used."
It works in theory. Practice is a whole other story.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Annual "Corey is a Bigger Bitch Than Usual" Day
As Valentine's Day fast approaches, I have to wonder how this Hallmark holiday came to be. It could be just that: A Hallmark holiday in order to sell cards after Christmas and before Easter. But part of me believes its origins to be more sinister. Our society today ultimately aims to become situated in a high-paying job and then get married before becoming old and crusty.
But who the hell had the authority (and balls) to assign February 14th as such a hateful holiday for single people? Technically, this holiday celebrates Saint Valentine, which leads me to believe that the religious right is out to get me (more so than usual). I can get legally married in this state, you mother fuckers!
Dating sucks, anyway. Sure, I love the butterflies I get when I meet someone and I really like them. But the whole process is so asinine. Especially for people my age. Some call the teenage years the awkward ones. I'm twenty years old, and this age is even more awkward. This is that age where us early twenty-somethings are ALMOST adults, but we're still working part-time jobs and making zero money, finishing our education and growing into the people we're meant to be. Or, like many of my high school classmates, living at home, pregnant and smoking weed. Can't wait for the reunion!
I went out on a first date a while ago. He asked me out for coffee in Boston. I thought about the offer and could only think of a stand-up bit Chelsea Handler once performed:
"Who decided coffee was a date? We can't get a meal anymore, ladies! What is a FRAPPUCCINO gonna lead to? A piggyback ride?"
Sadly, that about summed up the date. I accepted the offer and we went to Starbucks, where he spent a whole three dollars on my venti caramel apple spice with no whipped cream. The conversation was okay, but he just didn't make me laugh or think. That switch just didn't go off.
He then suggested we walk around the city, somehow dragging me to RAPE ALLEY; a.k.a. a scary side street where I thought I saw a drug deal occurring. Finally, we ended up in Government Center, when he saw the 24 hour Kinko's and decided he needed to send a fax. He sensed my horror that he even suggested this and tried to recover. "Uh, I don't have to send that fax NOW..."
I answered, holding back my exasperation as much as possible (which, if you know me, you know I have trouble doing), "No, no... I'm all for efficiency. I mean, we're here anyway..."
He opened the door for me and held it. So romantic.
Upon entering, the huge black lady with the word "SUPERVISOR" on her name tag behind the counter snapped at her employee, "YO! TYRONE! FEED THE PRINTAH! IT'S HUNNNNGRY!"
I stared, unable to believe this was actually happening to me. The supervisor turned back to us and asked frustratedly, "Can ah heeeeelp you?
"I just need to fax this," my date said, handing over the document and fax number. He then went to the bathroom and left me alone with the Kinko's staff. I was afraid they might shoot me or eat me, but they kept to themselves.
The supervisor wrapped a scarf around her head and addressed Tyrone. "Tyrone! Look! This is what them Muslim peoples wear! You know, them Jihad peoples?"
We eventually left Kinko's, when my date said, "I better go... Are you around next week? We could get dinner."
Luckily, I had plans to be away the next weekend. I never got a call after that.
People tell me I should be single and happy, rather than taken and miserable. To them, I say: "Suck it." I'm gonna have my cake and eat it, too (Please, no fat jokes).
But who the hell had the authority (and balls) to assign February 14th as such a hateful holiday for single people? Technically, this holiday celebrates Saint Valentine, which leads me to believe that the religious right is out to get me (more so than usual). I can get legally married in this state, you mother fuckers!
Dating sucks, anyway. Sure, I love the butterflies I get when I meet someone and I really like them. But the whole process is so asinine. Especially for people my age. Some call the teenage years the awkward ones. I'm twenty years old, and this age is even more awkward. This is that age where us early twenty-somethings are ALMOST adults, but we're still working part-time jobs and making zero money, finishing our education and growing into the people we're meant to be. Or, like many of my high school classmates, living at home, pregnant and smoking weed. Can't wait for the reunion!
I went out on a first date a while ago. He asked me out for coffee in Boston. I thought about the offer and could only think of a stand-up bit Chelsea Handler once performed:
"Who decided coffee was a date? We can't get a meal anymore, ladies! What is a FRAPPUCCINO gonna lead to? A piggyback ride?"
Sadly, that about summed up the date. I accepted the offer and we went to Starbucks, where he spent a whole three dollars on my venti caramel apple spice with no whipped cream. The conversation was okay, but he just didn't make me laugh or think. That switch just didn't go off.
He then suggested we walk around the city, somehow dragging me to RAPE ALLEY; a.k.a. a scary side street where I thought I saw a drug deal occurring. Finally, we ended up in Government Center, when he saw the 24 hour Kinko's and decided he needed to send a fax. He sensed my horror that he even suggested this and tried to recover. "Uh, I don't have to send that fax NOW..."
I answered, holding back my exasperation as much as possible (which, if you know me, you know I have trouble doing), "No, no... I'm all for efficiency. I mean, we're here anyway..."
He opened the door for me and held it. So romantic.
Upon entering, the huge black lady with the word "SUPERVISOR" on her name tag behind the counter snapped at her employee, "YO! TYRONE! FEED THE PRINTAH! IT'S HUNNNNGRY!"
I stared, unable to believe this was actually happening to me. The supervisor turned back to us and asked frustratedly, "Can ah heeeeelp you?
"I just need to fax this," my date said, handing over the document and fax number. He then went to the bathroom and left me alone with the Kinko's staff. I was afraid they might shoot me or eat me, but they kept to themselves.
The supervisor wrapped a scarf around her head and addressed Tyrone. "Tyrone! Look! This is what them Muslim peoples wear! You know, them Jihad peoples?"
We eventually left Kinko's, when my date said, "I better go... Are you around next week? We could get dinner."
Luckily, I had plans to be away the next weekend. I never got a call after that.
People tell me I should be single and happy, rather than taken and miserable. To them, I say: "Suck it." I'm gonna have my cake and eat it, too (Please, no fat jokes).
Friday, January 29, 2010
Lean On Me
My family always makes me feel better when I'm having a bad day.
Remember how I crashed my car? It's totaled. After my manager made me cry today because it was our last shift together before my transfer to another department, I had to go clean out my car so the insurance company can total it.
I cried for a while. I had so many good memories in that car.
I came home and I just wanted to talk to my mom. "Daddy, where's Mum?" I asked.
"She's sleeping. Go wake her up," he responded.
I entered my parent's room, where I found my mother snoring. I quietly said, "Mum, it's past 5:00, you need to wake up."
Mommie Dearest, still half-asleep, started to stir and announced, "I was watching the 5:00 news..."
That's when I looked at the TV. "Mum," I started. "You're watching BET."
Remember how I crashed my car? It's totaled. After my manager made me cry today because it was our last shift together before my transfer to another department, I had to go clean out my car so the insurance company can total it.
I cried for a while. I had so many good memories in that car.
I came home and I just wanted to talk to my mom. "Daddy, where's Mum?" I asked.
"She's sleeping. Go wake her up," he responded.
I entered my parent's room, where I found my mother snoring. I quietly said, "Mum, it's past 5:00, you need to wake up."
Mommie Dearest, still half-asleep, started to stir and announced, "I was watching the 5:00 news..."
That's when I looked at the TV. "Mum," I started. "You're watching BET."
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
It's Like That Daniel Powter Song...
I had a bad day.
January 18th, 2010.
At midnight, I spun out in the snow on the ground and hit a telephone pole with my car. The Mustang is a light car and doesn't do well in the snow. Usually I can recover from a skid, but I ended up taking the turn too fast this time.
The neighbors emerged from the house behind the telephone pole I almost took out.
"Are you okay? Do you need us to call someone?" a woman with a baby asked.
"No, I'll be fine," I said, calling my parents to come help. "Thanks, though."
Eventually, my dad and little brother rushed to the scene to stay with me to wait for a police officer and a tow truck to take my poor Fagmobile away. The officer arrived first and asked me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, the car's not."
"Oooh, child!" she exclaimed. "You need ta be mo' CAREFUL."
I stopped to wonder why my police officer was acting like a racist Tyler Perry character for a second, but figured I had to continue the conversation so as to not look like I had been drinking (which I hadn't, but the last thing I wanted to do was take a sobriety test in freezing weather).
"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Officer."
To add insult to injury, a Sander drove by the car wreck a few minutes later, attempting to make the road less slippery... I wasn't laughing.
Eventually, I watched as a tow truck came and took my baby away, and my father brought me home. I was ascending the stairs to the top floor of the house to get ready for bed when I heard my mother call, "COAH! COME 'EAH!"
Fuck. I braced myself for a lecture on safe driving. Conveniently, the tears immediately started flowing.
"Mummy! I. HATE. EVERYTHING. I FEEL SOOO BAD. THIS IS GONNA COST SO MUCH MONEY."
My mother's expression softended. "Coah, look, insurance will take care of it. What happened?" I recounted the events of the night, only to be berated over the proper use of "LOW GEAHS." She then snapped, "Go take some PM's and go to bed."
My parents firmly believe that Tylenol PM is a recreational drug. One night, I complained to my father that I hadn't been sleeping through the night, and he handed me four pills. "Dad, I wanna get a good night's sleep. I don't want to sleep FOREVER," I told him.
"Oh, okay, then just take three," he responded. I put the pills back in the bottle and went to sleep.
Anyway, I took the pills and shot off a text message which I had been meaning to send for a while. Having just survived a car crash, I felt like it was as good a time as any to be brave and ask the burning questions. Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep.
I woke up to a telemarketing call, which I ignored. They called back again. I ignored it. And then they left a voicemail, threatening to call back. "Really? Are we doing this right now?" I asked myself. But I figured that morning was as good a time as any to call my insurance company and get this whole thing underway.
"Your insurance policy was canceled," the customer service rep. told me.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!"
"It's showing up as canceled."
This was when my mother intervened. Convinced she was in the right (and she was!), she printed a copy of the check the insurance company cashed for this month's insurance, faxed it to the insurance company, and insulted the Brazilian girl who answered the phone. All that aside, my car is being fixed and paid for, which is nice.
It was then I got the response to my important message. And lucky me, I got the "Let's just be friends speech." Again.
Feeling vulnerable, I went into work at 2 p.m. and announced to everyone at the Concessions Counter: "We're gonna play a really fun game today!" Everyone stared and I continued, "It's called, 'Let's Not Piss Corey Off So He Doesn't Slash His Wrists In The Breakroom!'" I got a couple of groans in response and began working.
The dirty 3D glasses needing to be washed were calling my name (as that job requires being in a room alone, listening to music and not being near people). I plugged my iPod into the radio, and found myself developing grudges against Lady GaGa ("Bad Romance"), Beyonce ("Poison," "If I Were a Boy"), and Michael Buble ("Haven't Met You Yet").
The night passed without incident, until the last show was to be loaded. Short staffed as we were, things were going smoothly, until someone got trapped in the revolving door. Meanwhile, I had a woman throwing her popcorn at me because it was too salty.
"TASTE IT! I DARE YOU!" she growled.
10 p.m. rolled around, and by Massachusetts Law, minors cannot work past that point in time. That left only me and Grace to clean everything up. An hour later, most everything was done, when an old, Indian woman approached me and attempted to explain that, "I HAVE MADE DE VOMIT ON YOUR RUG."
I looked up at the sky and asked anyone who might have been listening, "Why?" I ask that question often, but this day will forever go down as "The Day I Died a Little Inside."
January 18th, 2010.
At midnight, I spun out in the snow on the ground and hit a telephone pole with my car. The Mustang is a light car and doesn't do well in the snow. Usually I can recover from a skid, but I ended up taking the turn too fast this time.
The neighbors emerged from the house behind the telephone pole I almost took out.
"Are you okay? Do you need us to call someone?" a woman with a baby asked.
"No, I'll be fine," I said, calling my parents to come help. "Thanks, though."
Eventually, my dad and little brother rushed to the scene to stay with me to wait for a police officer and a tow truck to take my poor Fagmobile away. The officer arrived first and asked me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, the car's not."
"Oooh, child!" she exclaimed. "You need ta be mo' CAREFUL."
I stopped to wonder why my police officer was acting like a racist Tyler Perry character for a second, but figured I had to continue the conversation so as to not look like I had been drinking (which I hadn't, but the last thing I wanted to do was take a sobriety test in freezing weather).
"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Officer."
To add insult to injury, a Sander drove by the car wreck a few minutes later, attempting to make the road less slippery... I wasn't laughing.
Eventually, I watched as a tow truck came and took my baby away, and my father brought me home. I was ascending the stairs to the top floor of the house to get ready for bed when I heard my mother call, "COAH! COME 'EAH!"
Fuck. I braced myself for a lecture on safe driving. Conveniently, the tears immediately started flowing.
"Mummy! I. HATE. EVERYTHING. I FEEL SOOO BAD. THIS IS GONNA COST SO MUCH MONEY."
My mother's expression softended. "Coah, look, insurance will take care of it. What happened?" I recounted the events of the night, only to be berated over the proper use of "LOW GEAHS." She then snapped, "Go take some PM's and go to bed."
My parents firmly believe that Tylenol PM is a recreational drug. One night, I complained to my father that I hadn't been sleeping through the night, and he handed me four pills. "Dad, I wanna get a good night's sleep. I don't want to sleep FOREVER," I told him.
"Oh, okay, then just take three," he responded. I put the pills back in the bottle and went to sleep.
Anyway, I took the pills and shot off a text message which I had been meaning to send for a while. Having just survived a car crash, I felt like it was as good a time as any to be brave and ask the burning questions. Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep.
I woke up to a telemarketing call, which I ignored. They called back again. I ignored it. And then they left a voicemail, threatening to call back. "Really? Are we doing this right now?" I asked myself. But I figured that morning was as good a time as any to call my insurance company and get this whole thing underway.
"Your insurance policy was canceled," the customer service rep. told me.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!"
"It's showing up as canceled."
This was when my mother intervened. Convinced she was in the right (and she was!), she printed a copy of the check the insurance company cashed for this month's insurance, faxed it to the insurance company, and insulted the Brazilian girl who answered the phone. All that aside, my car is being fixed and paid for, which is nice.
It was then I got the response to my important message. And lucky me, I got the "Let's just be friends speech." Again.
Feeling vulnerable, I went into work at 2 p.m. and announced to everyone at the Concessions Counter: "We're gonna play a really fun game today!" Everyone stared and I continued, "It's called, 'Let's Not Piss Corey Off So He Doesn't Slash His Wrists In The Breakroom!'" I got a couple of groans in response and began working.
The dirty 3D glasses needing to be washed were calling my name (as that job requires being in a room alone, listening to music and not being near people). I plugged my iPod into the radio, and found myself developing grudges against Lady GaGa ("Bad Romance"), Beyonce ("Poison," "If I Were a Boy"), and Michael Buble ("Haven't Met You Yet").
The night passed without incident, until the last show was to be loaded. Short staffed as we were, things were going smoothly, until someone got trapped in the revolving door. Meanwhile, I had a woman throwing her popcorn at me because it was too salty.
"TASTE IT! I DARE YOU!" she growled.
10 p.m. rolled around, and by Massachusetts Law, minors cannot work past that point in time. That left only me and Grace to clean everything up. An hour later, most everything was done, when an old, Indian woman approached me and attempted to explain that, "I HAVE MADE DE VOMIT ON YOUR RUG."
I looked up at the sky and asked anyone who might have been listening, "Why?" I ask that question often, but this day will forever go down as "The Day I Died a Little Inside."
Technology and My Family (Part 3)
It was a warm, fall day when I was at school, checking my e-mail. I signed in and found this:
"September 17, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Lois Saunders"
Obviously, I ignored it. I had no use for my mother's tweezers and I was AT SCHOOL (Read: trying to learn but actually socializing).
A few days later, this appeared in my inbox:
"September 21, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Yeah...they are still not BACK !!!!
Thank you,
Lois Saunders"
"Corey, what are you doing over there?" Jess asked me.
"My mom just sent me an angry e-mail about her tweezers..."
Everyone at the lunch table laughed at me. Can you say your mom sends you harassing e-mails? Exactly.
Why me?
"September 17, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Who TOOK my tweezers from the bathroom ????????
Thank you,Lois Saunders"
Obviously, I ignored it. I had no use for my mother's tweezers and I was AT SCHOOL (Read: trying to learn but actually socializing).
A few days later, this appeared in my inbox:
"September 21, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Yeah...they are still not BACK !!!!
Thank you,
Lois Saunders"
"Corey, what are you doing over there?" Jess asked me.
"My mom just sent me an angry e-mail about her tweezers..."
Everyone at the lunch table laughed at me. Can you say your mom sends you harassing e-mails? Exactly.
Why me?
Technology and My Family (Part 2)
During my sophomore year of high school, I got my first real cell phone. It was a small, silver flip phone with a mirror on the face (which I used to my advantage. A boy has to look good!). The best part was the text messaging plan. This was 2005, when text messaging was slowly becoming more and more prominent and it had yet to permeate the headlines at 5 o'clock.
We all thought text messaging was great; Anyone could send a secret message to anyone else during class. As a high school gossip, this was a fantastic tool for the art of shit-talking.
My mother decided that she wanted to get in on the action one day. It was a Thursday and I was in the TV Studio at lunchtime, sitting on the couch with some of the crew. My phone vibrated and I opened it up to find a message from "Mom."
"How's your day going?" it read.
"Good," I replied and left it at that.
The next day, I was in Devlen's office, discussing story ideas for the following week, when my phone rang again.
"I love you!"
"Corey, put the phone away!" my teacher snapped.
"Sorry, it's my mom. She loves me, apparently."
The weekend passed and Monday afternoon, I found myself in class, and my phone buzzed ONCE AGAIN. All it said was: "The eagle flies at noon."
I called Joanne over. "Read this, will you?"
"...What does that mean?" she asked.
Having no idea, I asked my mom when I got home that night.
"Coah, it's a code word!"
"For what?"
"I don't know."
It was then I realized that adults shouldn't be allowed access to modern technology. This theme continues still today. Recently, I posted a Facebook status which read:
"Dear Justin Bieber,
You are 12 years old and have no concept of what 'love' is. Kindly suck a dick.
Love,
Corey."
My mother took the opportunity to comment: "Do you think this is appropriate language for EVERYONE to see?"
"When haven't I thought that?"
I am so changing her password as soon as I can figure it out.
We all thought text messaging was great; Anyone could send a secret message to anyone else during class. As a high school gossip, this was a fantastic tool for the art of shit-talking.
My mother decided that she wanted to get in on the action one day. It was a Thursday and I was in the TV Studio at lunchtime, sitting on the couch with some of the crew. My phone vibrated and I opened it up to find a message from "Mom."
"How's your day going?" it read.
"Good," I replied and left it at that.
The next day, I was in Devlen's office, discussing story ideas for the following week, when my phone rang again.
"I love you!"
"Corey, put the phone away!" my teacher snapped.
"Sorry, it's my mom. She loves me, apparently."
The weekend passed and Monday afternoon, I found myself in class, and my phone buzzed ONCE AGAIN. All it said was: "The eagle flies at noon."
I called Joanne over. "Read this, will you?"
"...What does that mean?" she asked.
Having no idea, I asked my mom when I got home that night.
"Coah, it's a code word!"
"For what?"
"I don't know."
It was then I realized that adults shouldn't be allowed access to modern technology. This theme continues still today. Recently, I posted a Facebook status which read:
"Dear Justin Bieber,
You are 12 years old and have no concept of what 'love' is. Kindly suck a dick.
Love,
Corey."
My mother took the opportunity to comment: "Do you think this is appropriate language for EVERYONE to see?"
"When haven't I thought that?"
I am so changing her password as soon as I can figure it out.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Lights, Camera, Action (Part 2)
My sophomore year in College, I took an "Intro to Film Production" class. With my background in production from high school, I knew that I'd ace the class and wow my classmates with my extensive knowledge and organizational prowess.
As a gay man, I often like to express how I'm feeling through clothes. If I'm wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and the colors don't match, I'm in a bad mood or too tired to care how I look. But this first day of classes, I put on a new, button down shirt from Martin + Osa, with a beautiful light blue, dark blue, and light purple stripe pattern. I coupled that with new, dark jeans from Express, and my brand new, white Puma sneakers. I looked like $200, which is how much the outfit cost.
I was already familiar with Framingham State's TV Studio, having had a Studio class in there a year before. I walked into the dilapidated, darkly lit room, expecting a large group of fun, TV Production majors like my studio class.
I was wrong.
I looked around the room. There was one girl (who turned out to be really nice), wearing dark blue jeans and a black North Face jacket... and 10 guys. They were all wearing sweatpants and hoodies, much to my horror. I stuck out like a sore thumb, all dressed up with my hair molded into a fauxhawk.
The irony here is that the Professor showed us one of his student films, a "blog" starring someone who was ranting about film students:
"THEY DRESS BAD AND THEY SMELL," the actor screamed. I nodded my head, appreciating how ridiculous my life really is on a daily basis.
I sat down in my chair, wide-eyed and expecting the worst. That's when a boy wearing jeans came into class. Yes! Score one for the anti-sweatpants team! Not far behind him was a red-headed girl wearing boots and jeans. I started to feel less alone at that point.
Eventually, the teacher assigned our groups for our student film projects, which would span the semester. I ended up working with the boy in the jeans and the red-headed girl, later known as Matt and Jess, one of the boys in track pants, Ryan, and the kid who never showed up.
"I always wanted a gay BFF," Jess cooed as we got to know each other.
As a group, we developed the movie. The pitch? "A clown who's afraid of kids runs away from the circus," Matt announced.
I burst out laughing. Everyone else stared. But sure enough, the script came to life and we began shooting our student film. The shooting isn't the important part though. This semester in question was really more about the bonds we all made together.
Justin, who played our clown, held a wrap party for the movie, which was also a going away party for our professor. In his trailer.
"He lives in a trailer?!" I asked, incredulous.
Jess tried to calm me down, as she often has to do when I'm louder than necessary.
Turns out, it WAS a trailer park, but they weren't mobile homes. Just really small houses, which were actually pretty nice. The night of the party, I was greeted by Bock, our professor who was moving away, his 18-year old wife, and their 6-month old. Having been the producer of our film, he gave me a book on being a Producer and one about film scheduling. Man hugs were exchanged, no homo.
It was then that the alcohol started flowing freely. I started insisting that I was one of the girls and we needed a girl group picture.
At one point, I decided I would be the party's DJ. I hijacked the computer, cranked its speakers, and made sure "Put it in Your Mouth" by Akinyele echoed throughout the trailer. For anyone who doesn't know, this song goes:
"Put it in your mouth.
I said your mother fucking mouth.
Or you could just eat me out.
You can eat me out."
Then I smacked a straight guy's ass. I have never seen anyone look more confused in my life.
And to think, that never would have happened had I not taken this class!
As a gay man, I often like to express how I'm feeling through clothes. If I'm wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and the colors don't match, I'm in a bad mood or too tired to care how I look. But this first day of classes, I put on a new, button down shirt from Martin + Osa, with a beautiful light blue, dark blue, and light purple stripe pattern. I coupled that with new, dark jeans from Express, and my brand new, white Puma sneakers. I looked like $200, which is how much the outfit cost.
I was already familiar with Framingham State's TV Studio, having had a Studio class in there a year before. I walked into the dilapidated, darkly lit room, expecting a large group of fun, TV Production majors like my studio class.
I was wrong.
I looked around the room. There was one girl (who turned out to be really nice), wearing dark blue jeans and a black North Face jacket... and 10 guys. They were all wearing sweatpants and hoodies, much to my horror. I stuck out like a sore thumb, all dressed up with my hair molded into a fauxhawk.
The irony here is that the Professor showed us one of his student films, a "blog" starring someone who was ranting about film students:
"THEY DRESS BAD AND THEY SMELL," the actor screamed. I nodded my head, appreciating how ridiculous my life really is on a daily basis.
I sat down in my chair, wide-eyed and expecting the worst. That's when a boy wearing jeans came into class. Yes! Score one for the anti-sweatpants team! Not far behind him was a red-headed girl wearing boots and jeans. I started to feel less alone at that point.
Eventually, the teacher assigned our groups for our student film projects, which would span the semester. I ended up working with the boy in the jeans and the red-headed girl, later known as Matt and Jess, one of the boys in track pants, Ryan, and the kid who never showed up.
"I always wanted a gay BFF," Jess cooed as we got to know each other.
As a group, we developed the movie. The pitch? "A clown who's afraid of kids runs away from the circus," Matt announced.
I burst out laughing. Everyone else stared. But sure enough, the script came to life and we began shooting our student film. The shooting isn't the important part though. This semester in question was really more about the bonds we all made together.
Justin, who played our clown, held a wrap party for the movie, which was also a going away party for our professor. In his trailer.
"He lives in a trailer?!" I asked, incredulous.
Jess tried to calm me down, as she often has to do when I'm louder than necessary.
Turns out, it WAS a trailer park, but they weren't mobile homes. Just really small houses, which were actually pretty nice. The night of the party, I was greeted by Bock, our professor who was moving away, his 18-year old wife, and their 6-month old. Having been the producer of our film, he gave me a book on being a Producer and one about film scheduling. Man hugs were exchanged, no homo.
It was then that the alcohol started flowing freely. I started insisting that I was one of the girls and we needed a girl group picture.
At one point, I decided I would be the party's DJ. I hijacked the computer, cranked its speakers, and made sure "Put it in Your Mouth" by Akinyele echoed throughout the trailer. For anyone who doesn't know, this song goes:
"Put it in your mouth.
I said your mother fucking mouth.
Or you could just eat me out.
You can eat me out."
Then I smacked a straight guy's ass. I have never seen anyone look more confused in my life.
And to think, that never would have happened had I not taken this class!
Friday, January 8, 2010
Lights, Camera, Action
In my junior year of high school, I was one of the Producers of the school's daily news show. Despite all of the high school drama, I don't regret a minute of it. Working closely as a team teaches you a lot.
Important life lesson: Don't Shit Where You Eat.
Coming out in high school is a trying experience to say the least. Having a crush on the captain of the football team, who has had sex with more high school girls than days you've been alive, makes it that much harder.
The winter months brought Student Emmy season upon the crew of our show. Everyone was scrambling to put their news stories together and run rehearsals for the big day. The stress levels were high, as were the hormone levels. Nick and Liz's break-up rocked the cast and crew and divided everyone into two sides. Everyone knew about my crush (without me having to say a word). It was pretty obvious. "Can I help you edit your segment for tomorrow?" I'd ask with a big smile.
We started the Emmy shoot on a Friday afternoon. After two hours of preparation, and three and a half hours of takes that were not up to snuff, Nick, our male anchor announced he had a party to get ready for and stormed off the set.
The crew murmured behind his back after he left and the terms "Prima donna" and "Asshole" were thrown around like ecstacy and weed at Amy Winehouse's house party.
Eventually, we agreed to meet at school after classes Monday to finish the shoot. Knowing the rhythm of the show, having the lighting set up and a fresh start would definitely make a difference.
There was only one problem:
Six inches of snow fell the night before and school was closed. Never ever had I cursed because school was closed before that day. I called Frankie, the sports reporter, in a panic. "Corey, just go see if any of the doors are open." Because I lived so close to the school, I walked over and eventually found that the loading dock doors were unlocked. A few quick phone calls brought the entire crew to school (on a snow day), and we shot the show in a half-hour.
We then opted to celebrate at the local California Pizza Kitchen, where Frankie worked. To help his sister (who was waiting on us), he took our orders. I had never been to CPK before and had no idea what was good, so I asked Megan, one of our reporters, who pointed out a pizza which I decided to order.
"What'll ya have, Corey?" Frankie asked.
"The sweet and spicy italian SAUSAGE pizza--"
Everyone stared as the words came out. Not realizing the double entendre until it was too late, I was a bit embarrassed... to say the least.
The next day was Valentine's Day. Joanne, one of my best girlfriends to this day, came to school in a black dress with black make-up and black jewelry. Her protest to this hateful holiday rang true for many of the self-proclaimed "TV Geeks," including myself. Ever optimistic, I came to school that day in a pink polo shirt, with felt roses for my best girl friends and little paper valentines for my talent and crew.
Between the previous day's shenanigans and my entering the TV Studio that day, it had come to my attention that Frankie was laughing at my expense, behind my back. "I'm Corey's valentine!" he'd announce to the vicious gossips I call "my friends." The fact that he didn't think the news would get back to me still puzzles me to this day.
He walked in the front door of the studio, coffee in hand and announced his presence. As he approached the 3-Camera Set-up, I spread my arms wide and said, "Frankie, thanks for being my valentine!" That's when I took a step to get closer, and to intimidate him a bit, and I tripped over a camera cord, knocking us both to the ground.
"WHAT THE FUCK, COREY?!"
That's when Devlen, our teacher, intervened. "Outside. Both of you. NOW." We left out the backdoor, with everyone staring. "WHAT WAS THAT?"
Then, something weird happened. We discussed why I was PISSED BEYOND BELIEF, when Meathead gave me a hug and said, "...But you ARE my valentine."
In retrospect, I should've known he was just appeasing me to diffuse the situation. But a kid can dream, can't he?
After graduation, we didn't talk. We were still Facebook friends. But it was understood that things were just too awkward for us to ever say anything to each other. I'll just file that one under, "Mistakes."
Important life lesson: Don't Shit Where You Eat.
Coming out in high school is a trying experience to say the least. Having a crush on the captain of the football team, who has had sex with more high school girls than days you've been alive, makes it that much harder.
The winter months brought Student Emmy season upon the crew of our show. Everyone was scrambling to put their news stories together and run rehearsals for the big day. The stress levels were high, as were the hormone levels. Nick and Liz's break-up rocked the cast and crew and divided everyone into two sides. Everyone knew about my crush (without me having to say a word). It was pretty obvious. "Can I help you edit your segment for tomorrow?" I'd ask with a big smile.
We started the Emmy shoot on a Friday afternoon. After two hours of preparation, and three and a half hours of takes that were not up to snuff, Nick, our male anchor announced he had a party to get ready for and stormed off the set.
The crew murmured behind his back after he left and the terms "Prima donna" and "Asshole" were thrown around like ecstacy and weed at Amy Winehouse's house party.
Eventually, we agreed to meet at school after classes Monday to finish the shoot. Knowing the rhythm of the show, having the lighting set up and a fresh start would definitely make a difference.
There was only one problem:
Six inches of snow fell the night before and school was closed. Never ever had I cursed because school was closed before that day. I called Frankie, the sports reporter, in a panic. "Corey, just go see if any of the doors are open." Because I lived so close to the school, I walked over and eventually found that the loading dock doors were unlocked. A few quick phone calls brought the entire crew to school (on a snow day), and we shot the show in a half-hour.
We then opted to celebrate at the local California Pizza Kitchen, where Frankie worked. To help his sister (who was waiting on us), he took our orders. I had never been to CPK before and had no idea what was good, so I asked Megan, one of our reporters, who pointed out a pizza which I decided to order.
"What'll ya have, Corey?" Frankie asked.
"The sweet and spicy italian SAUSAGE pizza--"
Everyone stared as the words came out. Not realizing the double entendre until it was too late, I was a bit embarrassed... to say the least.
The next day was Valentine's Day. Joanne, one of my best girlfriends to this day, came to school in a black dress with black make-up and black jewelry. Her protest to this hateful holiday rang true for many of the self-proclaimed "TV Geeks," including myself. Ever optimistic, I came to school that day in a pink polo shirt, with felt roses for my best girl friends and little paper valentines for my talent and crew.
Between the previous day's shenanigans and my entering the TV Studio that day, it had come to my attention that Frankie was laughing at my expense, behind my back. "I'm Corey's valentine!" he'd announce to the vicious gossips I call "my friends." The fact that he didn't think the news would get back to me still puzzles me to this day.
He walked in the front door of the studio, coffee in hand and announced his presence. As he approached the 3-Camera Set-up, I spread my arms wide and said, "Frankie, thanks for being my valentine!" That's when I took a step to get closer, and to intimidate him a bit, and I tripped over a camera cord, knocking us both to the ground.
"WHAT THE FUCK, COREY?!"
That's when Devlen, our teacher, intervened. "Outside. Both of you. NOW." We left out the backdoor, with everyone staring. "WHAT WAS THAT?"
Then, something weird happened. We discussed why I was PISSED BEYOND BELIEF, when Meathead gave me a hug and said, "...But you ARE my valentine."
In retrospect, I should've known he was just appeasing me to diffuse the situation. But a kid can dream, can't he?
After graduation, we didn't talk. We were still Facebook friends. But it was understood that things were just too awkward for us to ever say anything to each other. I'll just file that one under, "Mistakes."
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