Neverland

For those of you who missed my glorious debut last night, be sure to check me out sometime over the next two nights, because I look Peter Pantastic. For someone who had never sewn a day in his life, the costume I made for myself is quite an achievement if I do say so myself. For those of you who may not see it, let me just say Peter Pan has never been as sexy as I have made him: the costume is so tight I have to zipper into it—yes, I sewed a zipper.

And to top it all off, I walked around all night asking people if they'd like a kiss. Then I handed them a thimble. Yes, I am that fucking adorable.

Bench

Today I was able to bench ninety-five pounds. Yes, kids, ninety-five pounds. For those who are keeping track, that is a twenty pound increase since I began what I thought was a farce of a weight training program. My scrappy, five-foot-six frame is able to wield a weight roughly seventy-five percent of its own body mass. How crazy is that?

My Novel

I was going to start my novel today, but I didn’t. I watched television instead. My agent, of course, thinks I have been working on it for the past three months, but I have actually been perfecting my powers of telekinesis. I can now lift my bookshelf for over three minutes so long as I don’t flinch. It may not lend itself to literary celebrity, but washing dishes has become a snap.

Boy

I had a date tonight. With a boy. It was very cordial. There were no sparks but there might be, if we went on another one. Or ten. Or twenty. (Who makes that call?) I asked if I could call him, but he said he's busy next week—he is, with three midterms—and he'd see me URAP.

I kept making these odd and inappropriate comments about race, and there were awkward beats, like when our food came three minutes after placing our order.

It isn't God that instilled in me this unfulfillable need for companionship but: capitalism, the media, social construction, what have you.

So I resort to polite conversation about what bands we like—and wonder why it feels like I'm missing the connection.

music

David once described the music I listen to as "Rent music," by which he meant that I listen to music in which people sing their heart out! (Think: "One Song, Glory...") Tonight I received two such CDs from Amazon—my little personal self-reward for the essay competition—Granian's Hang Around and Guster's Goldfly. I love my passionate, poppy music.

Barista no more!

I quit the Coffee Beanery today. My prize money will take care of me for a while. And the romance of working with coffee lost its appeal very quickly. On the first day of the job, I made the comment that baristas inherently had sex appeal. My co-workers couldn't relate at all—they just looked very confused. And that fantasy died pretty quickly. There's nothing all that sexy about those shirts (which I have return, incidentally). Even though I didn't hate the actual work, the job made me stressed and cranky. And now I can sleep in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, like a normal, healthy college student.

the end of history

I feel as though it would be appropriate to write some profound political treatise tonight, but maybe not. Isn't this most recent election really symptomatic of something broader that had nothing to do with anything that happened today?

I like boys, and I was trying to psyche myself up to ask for one's number tonight. But I've never done that before, and its hard.

Sometimes the world is too sad for words.

Get Real

In order to salvage what would otherwise have been a bust of a celebratory evening, I decided I would go out and rent a cheesy, gay, coming-of-age flick and commune with myself.

Contrary to the rave reviews on amazon, Get Real is one of the tritest pieces of crap I've ever seen. And I was looking forward to it! A British film! A gay British film!

And I realize that as a cheesy, gay, coming-of-age flick, it had a certain formula to follow, but it was far too chockful of lines like:

"I'm so scared."
"I know."
"How the fuck can you know? You're not me!"
"I know."

The rumors of the last hundred-fifty years are true: the British Empire really is on the decline.

celebration

I learned today that I am runner-up for the fairly prestigious W.W. Norton Scholar's Prize, so I have netted no small amount of prize money. I called friends with whom I could celebrate, and while I took comfort that the list felt longer than I thought it would be, no one was available. A striking majority were in such far-flung places as Bakersfield, Newport, Reno, and Arizona. And the rest didn't answer their phones. A shame, since dinner would have been on me.

Boy

There's this really hot boy on campus that I've always known peripherally—a friend of friends, you know. We'll call him Jon. Freshman year I was thrilled to find out that Jon was gay. Really he's gay? Now, I never actually pursued him. Even though he was hot and nice and smart, I didn't think our interests overlapped too much. And as hot and nice and smart as he was, he was probably out of my league. But I still like him and giggle, chat and smile whenever he talks to me.

So, three weeks ago, when I was drinking with a bunch of friends, one of them—we'll call him Noel—was going through his cell phone to see who his should call, and of course, Jon's number came popped up, and I said,

"Dude, you should totally call him. He's so hot."

So Jon came over, and we all hung out, but nothing scandalous happened. No crazy sailor-suit shenanigans. But that episode, along with a couple of subsequent conversations, must have made an impression, because he asked Noel whether I liked him.

Dun dun dun.

Noel said yes. Jon said, "Well, tell him I'd just like to be friends."

Noel told me tonight, and I'm placed in the awkward situation of being rejected without ever actually pursuing the boy.

Nice.

Booty Call

I got a booty call last night. I've never gotten a booty call before, as in a literal ("ring ring") call to inquire about some booty. Unfortunately, the boy in question was on ecstacy and "I just had a fight with my boyfriend."

I can't be that guy.

So I saw him this afternoon, and we both played it off like nothing happened. And it made me very grateful to be a gay man, because somehow I don't think any other type of person could master the same nonchalance we had.

It made me wonder: If I were to call random boys I have vague crushes on and pretend to be drunk, could I also get away with such forward behavior? Would they be as kind, letting me down nicely and pretending nothing happened?

I hope things have worked out with his boyfriend.