We're Disgusting

Last night was a spectacular night. Oh so spectacular.

Being the modern woman that I am, I decided that it was high time I took the Minimalist out on a date. Being the modern, broke man that he is, the Minimalist accepted. So after he got out of class (because apparently he goes to class, despite my by efforts to convince myself he doesn’t) he came over, drank a beer, and we were off.

After hearing that Mellow Mushroom had vegan cheese I decided that I needed a pizza smothered in it. When I mentioned that to my day, I think he was more than apprehensive, but I won some points by choosing to sit outside and because there was an extensive beer list.

I scored even more points when I suggested peppers, onions, and mushrooms on the pizza. Apparently, his mother doesn’t like any of those so he is constantly surprised when a girl likes them.

At least I know it’s not an entirely Freudian connection.

We even did the couple thing with his side, her side meat—Italian sausage for him, jerk tofu for me. Are we sickeningly adorable, yet?

Just wait.

Dinner continued wonderfully. The pizza was damn delicious. And when he ordered his second beer there was a mix-up and I got one, too. I was wary at first, but it didn’t take much prompting to get me to drink it. I even shared a few sips with him.

Disgusting? It gets worse.

Once we ate our fill, drank our beers, and stayed until they started cleaning up around so, we walked back to my car. I parked a few blocks away so we spent the entire walk back with our arms around each other, laughing and chatting. He even carried my box of leftovers.

We have gotten so disgustingly cute over this past year. Just think, I used to ignore him at parties.

Wait, I still do that.

I guess I haven’t matured that much yet. But I did win this date.

Neighborly Love

Long time no talk. Have you missed me?

Don’t answer that.

Needless to say, my life has been more than a bit of a ride lately. I’m thoroughly back into the swing of life here at Crunchy College. Want a crash course update?

Alright. But before we begin I just want to make sure everyone is seating with their safety belts fastened. Please keep your hands inside at all times.

Here we go, kids.

Things with Misfit have settled down. That’s due in part because I stopped thinking like a little girl at a candy store and in part because he stopped taking off his shirt and trying to climb on top of me. So it appears now that we’re just trying to be friends. It is actually working quite well, especially since I’ve recently become friendly with some of his friends—Taco*, Bearded**, and Uncensored***. Those budding friendships have worked out quite nicely for Misfit and I because we’re no longer stuck in the small, far too cerebral box we had been in.

Westchester is also joining in on a bit of the new friend fun with Taco and Uncensored. Her and Uncensored have taken a bit of an infatuation with each other. I wouldn’t categorize it as “like,” because neither of them are the other’s type. But for the time being they’re enjoying things. And as long as it doesn’t go much further I’m happy to sit back in Taco and my vomit nest and watch movies while they giggle and coo.

Rugby season is in full swing now with at least one game almost every weekend.

And we’re back into all our old traditions—Hello Jello, socialing, checking out the opposing men, and playing with puppies while people knock the shit out of each other.

It wasn’t long into the first rugby weekend that I realized my endurance has gone to hell. What happened to the girl that could eat a bowl of oatmeal, drink all day, pass out for a couple of hours, then wake up and drink all night? I miss her. There won’t be a game this weekend, but I’m not too terribly broken up about it. We’re out of jello mix anyway.

The Minimalist and I are still thick as thieves. Sometimes, when I really think about it, I get far too freaked out. Sometimes, like after I leave his humble abode, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But regardless of any fuzziness I may be feeling there will be no FaceSpace titles coming anytime soon. Well, unless they suddenly create a “fucking” or “following around” one. We decided the day those pop up we’ll make it official.

But that seems unlikely anytime soon. So in the mean time we’re just doing what we do best—drinking too much, engaging in PDA, bickering, and being disgustingly cute. And while I’m sure most trained mental health professionals would say this isn’t the healthiest type of relationship for, the Minimalist doesn’t object and he is in the process of becoming a trained mental health professional. That counts, right?

Oh, and I’m also going to classes. Three classes plus the paper makes me a very busy, very caffeinated girl. I’m falling in love with French, getting slightly burnt out with editing, and managing to hold my own in a probably too advanced English class. I’m getting into the thick of midterms, which is the time every semester that I first question the value of a college degree and think it would just be easier to sell weed for the rest of my life. I’ve also recently started watching old episodes of Weeds, so that could have something to do with it, also.

Either way, my days are slightly less fun than they should be right now. But don’t worry, kids, because my nights are still plenty fun. And plenty wine-tastic.

*Taco-my neighbor who has a love of virgins and the ability to nuzzle like a puppy.

**Bearded-another neighbor, this one tall and slightly mysterious. And he has an extensive sweater collection.

***Uncensored-yet another neighbor. This is has a love of hardcore music, skinny jeans, and scary movies.

Boo PoPo

Few weekends have a theme as pronounced as this one. And this one screamed…

“Fuck the Police”

It started Friday when Nickname and a few of my peers decided that it was time they started learning the art of selling booze out of backpacks. Yup, the youngest upper classmen have stepped up to the log bench and started their own bonfire.

Or, maybe I should say that they attempted to step up. But a little scheduling snafu and a stupid freshman rained on it. And then PSafe came. So despite it being barely past 11 the fire was extinguished, though hopefully not along with our not-terribly-shitty reputations.

From there we all piled into cars and headed over to the scheduling snafu—a house party.

We got there right as things were at their peak. The music was good. The pong table was hot. And all my favorite people (including a recent alum that I’ve always had a strange, inexplicable liking towards) were there. I hit my party-groove and was sipping and mingling immediately.

Everything was smooth talking guys and wonderfully biting drinks when all of a sudden I heard the word that every underage kid dreads—COPS!

Normally the cops come, the homeowner goes outside to talk, the cops tell everyone to shut up, and we all disperse calmly. But this was in no way a normal situation.

The homeowner went outside, the cops talked, the homeowner came inside and told us to shut up, and the cops continued sitting outside.

Eventually all the youngins’ were advised to leave or risk a popo encounter, so I filled my car with Westchester and Mr. Jackson and tried to leave. But the cops had most of the roads out blocked. So a few crazy turns later we managed to make it back to campus. I promptly dropped them at the curb and made my way to the Minimalist’s where I learned the reason behind all the hooplah.

Apparently, a couple of girls who had been walking to the party got hit by a drunk driver. The names or condition of any of the girls is unknown.

And despite the fact that cops never showed up to Saturday’s shindig their presence was still felt in the form of a creepy old man.

DeVirgin, who was throwing the party, apparently has some more than slightly odd neighbors living behind him. And from what I can gather the middle-aged father heard to festive noise and decided that him, his Great Dane, and 16-year old son needed to join in. So they hopped the fence—with the dog—and told DeVirgin that if they weren’t allowed to get their party on then the cops would make sure no one could.

Because that’s the mature thing to do, right middle-aged man?

So they stayed. And the dog pooed in the house. And the son was nowhere to be found. And the father got far drunker than me and hit on everything that may have had a vagina between its legs.

The cops never showed, but needless to say, the presence of a man old enough to be my father and creepy enough to be on To Catch a Predator was in no way appreciated.

But I hate to end things on a sour note, so I’ll tell you something I did appreciate about this weekend:

I appreciate that Westchester and I have the same taste in so much and that she decided to go to my favorite veg-head restaurant for her birthday dinner.

And I appreciate all those lovely ladies.

Crash Course: Grass is Green

Ladies,

I’m going to give you some advice I suggest you heed.

Don’t rock the boat!

If you have yourself a man/boy-friend and it’s good -- not just good to the point where you haven’t found anything better, but good to the point where you’re not even looking -- then don’t think for whatever reason that the grass will be greener on any other side that you might come across.

Take if from a girl who has fallen for fake grass more than a time too many, it is never greener.

And now, just as I had to last year with Connecticut and Arch Enemy, I have to remind myself of just that.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch, though, because the Minimalist and I are still sailing smoothly. We’re peachy keen, over the moon, and disgustingly happy. But there’s also Misfit*.

I met Misfit when he wrote for my section in the newspaper. He asked for my number under the guise of needing my help, and then invited me to his place under the guise of wanting me to go over his draft with him. Things evolved from there, thanks in part to GoodMan telling him that the Minimalist and I were a thing of the past.

While Misfit is undeniably wonderful and attractive and intelligent and a whole host of other favorable adjectives, I’m not convinced that his lawn is any better than the Minimalist’s. Ginger suggested a pro/con list and while normally I’m a not-so-closested list-lover, I can’t begin to compare them because they’re so completely different.

Misfit and I shop at a natural foods co-op. The Minimalist and I screw with freshman boys.

Misfit meditates. The Minimalist drinks.

Both make me laugh.

Once again, don’t take this as any kind of confession of feelings or intentions. Take this as what it is—advice on how to handle a situation that will undoubtedly spring up at some point, and one that I will never know how to handle.

If only Twin was here to tell me what to do this time…

*Misfit-GoodMan’s former roommate.

Heads Up

In college don’t be surprised if…

…You find yourself turning into the kind of person you HATE by writing complicated, confusing academic papers with big words and sentences like…

“’Six Characters in Search of an Author’ is an Italian modern play that attempts to define reality by blurring the lines of reality under the pretense of the theater and the battle between actors that play characters and characters that really are characters, all of which, I believe, is an allegory for the refraction that occurs when reading a text designated as world literature.”

Yes, that is what a 64-word thesis sentence looks like.

…Your roommate walks into the room and says she wants a piercing. And half an hour later goes from this,

to this.

With a little of this

in between.

…You find a penis drawn in the dirt on your car. Because penises are funny at any age.

… People (mos’def not me, mind you) go on dates to the dining hall. Or even more gag-tastic, double dates.

…You watch at least 2 of your ‘mates eat Chef Boyardee in a day.

It’s the new Ramen, haven’t you heard?

…Especially when you go to Crunchy College, you debate between getting to class on time and pressing your tofu.

Or maybe that last one is just me.

Manly Man-Boys

Due to a little drunken research with Twin one night, I was able to find out the date of that fateful night when the Minimalist and I first shared spit and a bed. That date (which I am choosing to keep quiet, though you don’t have to try too terribly hard to figure it out) has recently passed.

Yes, kids, that mean our pseudo anniversary just came and went.

And how does that make me feel?

Fan-freaking-tastic!

A day or so before the big day 2 things happened. First, I got far too drunk and, after instructing the Minimalist to finish his drink so I could tell him something creepy (and then having to reassure him that I was not carrying his spawn), told him.

He reacted far better than I expected—he quickly chugged another beer and kissed me on the forehead.

And people wonder why I like this man-boy.

But the next day another, far less blush-inducing thing happened—I found an old note from my ex. Him and I are no longer speaking for several reasons, to say the least, but before he showed his true colors we dated for a year and a half. He is the reason I avoid FaceSpace relationships, or any actual relationship, like the plague.

The note I found was from the very beginning, when things were still good and we were still leaving each other bags of gummy bears.

And it made me sad.

Sad because things had been so good and cute and fun and then quickly changed.

Sad because to this day I’m still sporting those scars.

Sad because there is always the chance that the Minimalist and I could end up that way.

But then sadness changed to nausea.

And I spent the rest of the weekend drinking too much (yeah, again) and being probably disgustingly cute with the Minimalist. Because, oh yeah, we have apparently gotten more disgusting.

We text now. He’s spent a handful of nights in my dorm. He kisses me in public a lot and jokes about doing so whenever he sees guys hitting on me just to see the reaction. His parents like me.

I’m surprised we aren’t constantly serenaded by the sounds of people retching around us. So who gives a fuck about the world’s douche-y-est ex. I’m not going to let him turn my life into a fuck shit stack anymore.

And I’m going to continue to enjoy my minimal time with my man-boy friend. I just won’t let him borrow anything.

Score So Many

Sorry for leaving you hanging there for a while, kiddos. But this little co-ed had some business to attend to.

And what do I mean by business?

Setting up (what is in the process of becoming) my awesome swinging bachelorette pad. And I call it that for many reasons: we have a giant beanbag chair, there is literally a Carmen Electra “exercise” pole in the center, we will soon be getting a purple shag rug, and the obvious, all 8 of us are unmarried ladies.

Which brings me to business number 2—bonding with my ‘mates. There are some of the old cast of characters—Westchester, Ginger, Hookar, and Nickname (formally Roomie-Dearest)—but there are also some new faces—Spacey*, Homegirl**, and CC***.

After spending a very long day moving in Saturday we needed to kick up our heels. What better way to do that, and bond in the process, than by popping some champagne, inviting over a few friends and playing a rousing game of Never Have I Ever.

But this wasn’t your grandmother’s NHIE. In this instance you drank if you hadn’t done it (because we hate to exclude people). Needless to say, everyone enjoyed themselves.

And we enjoyed ourselves at the bonfire, all the while drinking, finding friends, and checking out this year’s crop of first-years freshmen. There were 2 that stuck out to me: a boy that “made moves” and a girl with little more than marriage on the brain.

Should make for an interesting class.

Sunday dawned bright and early, with my usual inability to sleep past 9. It was a day full of little consequence (unless you count figuring out that I could never support myself as a stripper) until I started getting ready for bed.

Let me preface this recount by saying that I had known all day that the Minimalist would be coming back Sunday. I had known for a week. But not wanting to be That Girl, I didn’t contact him, nor did I have any intention to until Monday.

But there came a point, as I was “exercising”, that my phone buzzed. Much to my surprise, it was the Minimalist wanting to see me. I’ll skip the details, but when I finally laid myself down to sleep he was right next to me in my bed.

This is the first time in far too long that I’ve had a man-boy in my bed. And it is the straight up first time there has been one in my college bed. Needless to say, I was mildly freaking out (and not just because my comforter was askew in the duvet cover and my baby blanket was floating around somewhere).

The man-boy that I liked was in my bed! In my room! This was uncharted territory. But I certainly didn’t mind. I slept like a baby…until my 7:45 alarm.

Yup, 8:30 class twice a week. M’favorite.

The Minimalist left on his walk of shame back to his new house and I rushed out to a full day of classes and meetings and whatnot.

And now I’m dead tired, but beyond happy. With everything.

And I just heard this weekend is a rugby weekend.

Score so many for sophomore year.

*Spacey-a girl with a love of drunk dancing and a slight inability to follow most trains of thought.

**Homegirl-she can only be described as nice, because she is (though I sense a bit of a wild streak waiting to come out).

***CC-short for Community College, where she went last year. And while she is wonderfully chill, she also appears to be testing her new, out of state waters.