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.

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.

Boro Briefings

Here I am, once again in the Boro that I love so much.

As I write this I am on the verge of taking my first sophomore nap, so I’ll be brief in anticipation of a much longer, more detailed account to come.

I left the Dirty Dirty yesterday. And while I was thrilled to death to be returning to the very green campus and all the less than crunchy hippie friends I have there, I still found myself a bit sad to be going.

What was the root of this sadness, you ask?

Leaving Rocky. Yes, I nearly cried over leaving my dog. But after all the doggy hooplah that this summer entailed I’m sure you can understand.

And there was also a good bit of sadness over leaving ChiChi and Twin. Despite the fact that this year showed me just how close we can remain when rarely seeing each other, I am still saddened by our new separation. Especially since I royally fucked up saying g’bye to each of them.

(Yes, ChiChi and Twin, I take full responsibility for our lack of proper g’byes. I suck. I apologize.)

But yet here I am, in my room in my suite in my dorm which more than slightly resembles a jail. But more on that at another time.

So for now, as I lay my head down to nap, I leave you with this:

While I was for a bit, as I always am, uncertain of where and how I fit in College, returning today to a suite full of lovely ladies, I know exactly where I fit. And now it’s just a matter of making myself feel comfortable.

G’night for now, lovers.

A Wee Bit of Reflection

It’s been a year since I started this little labor of love, my real-time coming of age tale. And oh boy, what a year it has been.

If you had told me last year that this is how I would end up, that this would have been my life, I would have laughed.

Going into my freshman year I was going to be the life of every party. I was going to be single. I was going to be an honor student, a super achiever. I was going to be neat.

Well, one of those things held true—I made dean’s list both semesters and landed the most rossome editor position ever (and I’ve already got my eyes and heart set on my next position). But neat? Single? Life of the party?

Not even.

I’m just as disorganized. I still fall asleep the moment I open a textbook. And while I’m fun to be around I’m never going to be the girl to get the party started. Instead, there have been plenty of times that I opted to stay in with a glass bottle of wine and some Hulu. And I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted that I’m a messy, semi-wallflower with narcoleptic tendencies.

And I’ve finally accepted my less-than-single status, too, which may have been harder than accepting that this co-ed isn’t the hardest of partiers.

Because while it seems almost nothing has turned out the way that I anticipated, I wouldn’t change a thing. And it took a night in Milly to make me realize that.

Saturday night ChiChi invited her nearest and dearest friends (and some randoms) to her new, gorgeous, big, old house (which is decorated exactly like her parents’ house) to properly warm it. Of course, Twin and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Twin brought Chihuahua. Green Bean and the Fertilizer were there with three of his friends from Boston.

We all went out to dinner at a place called the Pickle Barrel.

Then the ladies returned to ChiChi’s to pretty ourselves over a bottle of organic champagne I brought back from Paris.

The boys returned shortly after, along with ChiChi’s 2 roommates, so we mixed a tub of hunch punch and got the party started.

More people showed up later. We danced. We mingled. We drank.

I started my evening talking to an ex-Marine. We talked about men missing chunks of skull and the dangers of life after deployment (at which point I mentioned something Papa, always the insurance man, told me about military motorcycle deaths). Then I spent the rest of the evening talking to one of the Boston boys about their upcoming trip to Disney world, road tripping, cooking and being a crazy vegan. The more I talked with him the more pronounced my Yankee accent became. And when it came time to go to bed I threw myself on the most uncomfortable Ikea pull-out couch. The Boston boy happened to fall there, too.

Now before you begin chanting adulterer and demanding crimson “A”s, let me make fully clear that we did nothing, all of our clothes stayed on, and that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

The next morning I woke feeling better than anticipated, downed my trademark hangover cure (warm lemon water and oatmeal), helped ChiChi clean a bit while listening to her gripe about her first 8am class the next day, then returned to the homestead.

So what did I learn from my 24 hours in Milly?

That my family and my roots are important to me. That I don’t dislike the Dirty Dirty as much as I always thought I used to. That I actually really like the Minimalist. That I really, truly and completely love food and that my current food-related ambitions are not ill-advised. And when I heard ChiChi talk about starting back to school I got a wee bit jealous. Jealous of 8am classes and papers and mounds of reading?

Yes. Because College is where I belong. College is where most of my life is now. Twin and ChiChi, and the rest of the gang, are always going to be massively important parts of my life, but College is now. And, as strange as this sounds, all the work that comes with it is just icing on the cake.

So, cheers, friends. To a good year past, and another good year to come.

Paris, Love

Oh Paris, how I love thee!

You’ll be happy to know that I was able to put aside my puppy problems and really enjoy my time in gorgeous, romantic, magical Paris.

Want some highlights?

Of course you do!

Instead of camping out at the local Best Western (because I’m pretty sure there was one in Paris) Papa decided that a family of 5 needed more than 2 standard rooms—we needed an apartment. So we rented a 3 bedroom, 3 bath apartment with 2 sitting rooms, kitchen, dining room and laundry room overlooking the Seine and Pont Sully (one of the bridges that leads to Ile St Louis).

Pretty freaking fantastic, right?

Another little tidbit about the apartment that’s worth mentioning—the woman who lived below us.

Ever see people with dogs in little suitcases on airplanes? Well most of the time (when people can afford to shell out the $100 for a bag and $120 each way to bring the dog onboard) those bags are Sherpa Bags and the woman who lived below the apartment—Gayle Martz—just happened to invent them.

All the celebrities carry them, so you know she’s made a pretty penny. Actually I’m positive she’s made a pretty penny because she made a point of telling us that she owns homes in southern California, NYC and Paris.

Life outside the apartment was pretty great, too.

We wined.

We dined.

We champagned.

We strolled down small cobelstone streets lined with adorable shops selling everything from glass figurines (Twin’s present), wines from a vineyard in Dirty Dirty’s sister city in France, every kind of kitchen dish and utensil imaginable (including knives that say “pizza” in the blade), to mountains of spices.

Though my favorite store was easily Shakespeare and Company.

It's quite possibly the most famous English bookstore in all of France and was once a favorite spot of Hemingway's.

We saw the last stage of the Tour de France, which was lovely despite the fact that Contador won.

No one likes a bitch, Contador.

And I even got to drag the family through the Louvre for a few hours, all the while impressing them with my newly acquired art history knowledge.

^On the other side of this wall is only the Mona Lisa. That attention whore.^

Though the highlight of my trip was my personal picnic in my favorite park—Place de Vosges.

What made this picnic so wonderful?

I got to explore the city by myself in search of a pita full of falafel, which I ate on a bench in the sun while watching some of the cutest kids run around the park.

Why is it that children screaming is so much less annoying when they’re speaking French?

Overall, it was a fabulous trip that I wish had lasted longer, especially since the real life that I returned to is far from thrilling or even pleasant.

Mother refuses to do anything about Luke. And I have to miss a trip to ChiChi’s beach condo with all my friends because I’m having my surgery then.

Super fun, right?

Uh Oh

I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve updated you on my summer shenanigans. That’s not for lack of excitement, though. Believe me, there has been plenty going on.

Papa and co came for a birthday/Father’s day visit.

We laughed. We cried. We went out to dinner and Papa didn’t trust that where I told him to park the car was safe so he moved it half way through the meal.

Only a few short days after Papa flew back up to VAB Brother, his friend Spencer Pratt* (SP) and I hopped in Brother’s sensible Volvo sedan and drove the long 10 hours (it was 11 hours for us because Brother loves to stop a lot) up to join him. The next day the 3 of us and Papa jumped in his equally sensible, but slightly more masculine Rover and drove up to DC to pick up Westchester and take in a Mets v Nats game.

The Mets won. We were happy. We were tired.

The next 2 days (which included the 4^th) were spent getting too much sun on the beach with the neighborhood families.

I think everyone of Sister’s posse got (or pretended to get) stung by a jellyfish. While this was going on the parents were drinking coconut rum.

It was a good day.

Brother and SP drove home the next day while Westchester and I did some shopping and entertained LilBro** and a friend of his in our hotel room. By entertained I mean drank a handle of Sailor, no sexual favors included.

Westchester left a couple of days later and I made my way down to the Boro.

Just like last time I invaded the Minimalist’s castle (which is the same borrowed castle as last time), but without any of the silly fears. And once again we spent (probably) far too much time laying in bed watching Deadliest Warrior. And once again, we were quite happy with that.

Once difference from last time is that this weekend was full of belated birthday celebrations. The Minimalist’s 21^st birthday was the 5^th so in honor of the momentous day I gave him a nice bottle of whiskey. And in honor of my less momentous birthday he swallowed his masculine pride and walked in Victoria’s Secret to buy me a gift card (because he knows I love undies but also knows that if he had bought me any it would have been a tad creepy [and probably the wrong size]). After that he also swallowed some fake chicken at Boba House, my favorite vegetarian restaurant. He swore he would never go there, even refusing when ManLove wanted to go.

I was grinning like a fool, to say the least.

I returned to the Dirty Dirty Monday after 12 days away.

And that night was spent hanging out on Adult’s porch listening to Grill Master teach ChiChi’s Frenchie*** incorrect English. Or just say outrageous things to here. My favorite:

GM: “If you hang out here too much you’ll shoot your friends and bury them in the backyard.”

F: looks confused

GM: “Why am I like this? Maybe because when I was younger my father put dimes in a sock and beat me with them. But don’t worry, I got used to the bruises and learned to hide in the closets.”

Why that’s not exactly something to joke about it was ridiculously funny because all Frenchie understood was “dimes,” “father,” and “hide in the closest,” leading her to believe Grill Master was Looney Toons because his father hid his money in the closet.

I think you just had to be there.

This all seems like fun, but not terribly noteworthy summer fun, right?

If this was the whole story it sure would have been, but there’s more.

About a month ago I went for my yearly physical, which revealed that I had abnormal cells on my cervix. This find lead to another test, which turned into a biopsy, the day before leaving for Vagina Bitch. I was supposed to get my results the 7^th, but that date has come and gone and I’m still waiting. And I’m still nervous.

I probably shouldn’t be (I’m young, healthy with no known family history of cervical cancer), but I am. I can’t help it.

So during all this family, friendly, sunny fun I’ve had this little gnawing thought at the back of my mind. Not fun.

But really more than nervous I’m just ready to know. Once I know I can get out of this horrid limbo situation I’ve been living in. And we all know how I feel about limbo…

*Spencer Pratt-I call him this not because he shares any of SP’s qualities, but because they once both sported flesh-colored beards.

**LilBro-a fellow GuilCo sophomore-to-be who reminds me unbelievably of Brother, especially when drunk

***Frenchie-ChiChi’s mother is the definition of Francophile and somehow managed to find a teenage French girl to stay with them for a month a few years ago. Well, the girl has come back for another month-long visit.

Memory Lanes

Sunday ended up being a trip down memory lane. And it offered varying degrees of enjoyment and sadness.

Twin was in town and invited ChiChi and I to partake in her usual Sunday evening ritual—family dinner. With the prospect of spending the evening with her parents (especially her wonderfully hilarious father, Jumpin JT), her brother and his new girlfriend, we happily accepted.

And without a doubt, this dinner was exactly as it used to be. Twin’s brother said highly inappropriate things. Her mother only freaked out about them cussing and talked to the dogs like they were people. And Jumpin JT talked about how difficult his job was and his newly acquired Warhol poster. ChiChi found fuzz in every single bit of her food (she, as always, was the only one). I chatted with her mother about Real Housewives of New Jersey (her favorite is Teresa). And Twin’s brother’s girlfriend was…nice.

After dinner the Triplets (as we’ve once again been called) ventured over to Adult’s house so we (minus me) could have a drinky-drink before heading back down memory lane in the form of an All Get Out show,

Back in the day this would have been the highlight of my month. I would have carefully picked out an outfit that was functional and hot as hell without looking like I was trying too hard. I would have bought a new pack of smokes for the occasion and gone out of my way to chat it up with the All Get Out boys.

Not this time. I didn’t carefully pick out an outfit (though I did still look pretty good) nor did I buy any smokes. Rather I almost forgot about it entirely.

About half way through the walk from Adult’s to the place they were playing I was hit by a brick in the form of a massive realization—I didn’t even want to go to the show. I knew they people that were going to be there.:

Kids that certainly acted their age. People I didn’t want to see. Other people I used to go to school with that I semi-intentionally stopped talking to when I left for college.

And I knew what my night would consist of:

Forking over money I don’t have to watch bands I don’t like. Walking outside between bands to watch underage kids chain-smoke. Standing in a too crowded room while said immature kids tried to be friends with the bands.

And you know what?

I was completely right.

Within minutes of getting there I was…angry. Everything about that scene was rubbing me the wrong way.

The other 2/3 of the Triplets felt the same way so we went back to Adult’s house until AGO went on. Even then, Twin and ChiChi only stayed for a few minutes.

I was determined to get my money worth so I stayed the entire time. And they were great, as usual.

It was their first song, though, that I remember most.

They played my favorite—Lucky Bastard—but this time it hit me in a completely different way.

“We always want more,” “I love my neighbor more than he loves his wife,” “I want to go home.”

Yeah, this got me.

I often jokingly lament my lack of a home. And it’s not just because I want a set of All Clad pots and pans or that cool futon from Target. It’s because this little flower needs somewhere to spread her roots.

None of Papa’s houses are my home. The Dirty Dirty isn’t my home anymore. The Big Apple certainly isn’t my home, despite my many wishes. And as much as I love the Boro, it still isn’t my home.

I used to want to live a transient Kerouac-style life. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that just won’t work for me.

I need somewhere to return to. I need a constant.

I don’t have that now.

Maybe this is another part of growing up—learning to let go of things like that and go with the flow.

If so, I think I need a remedial course.

Back to the Boro

As I mentioned before I was planning of hitting up the Boro for a much needed visit.

Well, after a bit of frenzied packing on Wednesday I was out the door. I drove quick like a rabbit and got up to my town in almost no time (relatively speaking).

First stop on the agenda was to see the manly friend. Since he doesn’t actually have a home he’s being living in Country’s abandon (but still paid for) room. He also happens to be rooming with Cesar, so it’s almost like nothing’s changed.

Another thing that hasn’t changed is how the Minimalist and I act around each other. I found him sitting at his desk watching Deadliest Warrior (possibly my new favorite show, by the way). Out of courtesy to me he shifted his computer to face the bed and we lay down to watch it.

And that’s what we did the majority of the time I was there. It may seem boring, but it was anything but.

It was us in our own little world where tribes of Pacific natives fight Japanese monks and Michael Jackson, Lady Gaga, and Princess Leia watched.

Sounds silly, but it was marvelous. It was extra marvelous considering how nervous I was before my trip.

During a handful of conversations with ChiChi I realized that this was kind of big. Or at least, I thought it was big. My biggest fears?

First, that he would get tired of me. I didn’t expect us to be glued at the hip (and we certainly weren’t here), but I knew we would be spending a good amount of time together, which is something we don’t normally do.

Back in school we would see each other while out at night, I would follow him back to his room, spend the night, lounge in bed for a while the following morning, but I was usually gone by noon. That’s not exactly a massive amount of time.

So the time certainly had me worried. But, as ChiChi can attest, I had a bigger (far more absurd) fear.

My shampoo was going to be in his shower. And he was going to see it.

Believe it or not, that had me really freaked. Something as inconsequential as that may not seem worth a second thought, but to me it meant…commitment. It meant I was living with him, albeit temporarily.

And that made me nervous. So nervous that before I took my bag out of the car I asked him at least 3 times if I could invade his castle.

My fear of commitment is not new. Nor is it a secret. It’s big and real and ugly. And it rears its ugly head quite often.

Hence why the shampoo was a big deal at first.

As to be expected, though, it wasn’t a big deal in actuality. Nothing was a big deal. Nothing I was worried about came to fruition.

My little vacation was perfect. I hung out with the Minimalist, Cesar, Roomie, and a few other lovelies. Mr. Jackson even made an appearance the last night. The Minimalist even took me out on a lovely date (which I got to choose). And we all watched lots of Bob Ross.

And as usual whenever saying g’bye to the manly man, I left an hour later than I planned.

So once again my fears and apprehensions proved to be ridiculous (unlike the amount of clothes I packed, for once). And now I can’t wait until he comes to the Dirty Dirty.

Now that might be cause for concern.

Returning to the Ville

Woah boy!

Saturday night was amazing.

No, it wasn’t just any old success. Success is an understatement. It was an unbelievably, ridiculously amazing smash.

As you know, I was wary about this night. The closer I got to their swinging bachelor pad the more uneasy my stomach began to feel. Upon texting Twin that I had arrived I also texted ChiChi. The text I sent her started with “I’m freaking.”

Obviously, not the best start to a long evening.

Some of my nerves were relieved once I got inside and was greeted with a comfortingly warm hug and a genuine smile from X-Man. I always knew I liked that man.

From there the festivities started.

First on the agenda, some pong on the table Twin painted.

Considering the success I’ve experienced at pong tables recently we decided that we could totally take Blue and Mr. Milly. We were wrong.

After people had their fill of pong someone bonged a beer and all the guests headed down to the water.

Oh, did I not mention that Mr. Milly and X-Man live on a lake, with water, a dock and a boat steps from their porch?

Well, they do. So everyone donned their skimpy suits and grabbed some floats for some fun in the sun. And this is where some of the annoying drama started with Little Girl*.

The word on the street is that her and Blue were doing it and maybe possibly kind of dating. He hadn’t been paying attention to her all day, so of course she decided to have a few drinks and loudly proclaim that she was going to swim across the lake (not a ridiculously far distance, but populated by rushing crafts) without a life jacket.

Everyone protested (thus giving her the attention she wanted), but she did it anyway. Strike 1.

Once the sun got to be too much (and everyone’s cups got too dry) we returned to the house for more ponging and bonging.

At some point we realized one of the guests (who’s name I never really knew) was missing. He was found passed out on the floor of the bathroom. It was only about 6:30.

No need to worry, though. We woke him up, gave me a few bottles of water and he finished his nap in a bed upstairs.

While he was napping Little Girl was crying in another spare bedroom. Blue was intermittently comforting her. And they may or may not have had sex. Strike 2.

At some point in the night Mr. Milly and X-Man decided that if we were going to finish the keg by the end of the night we needed to start taking drastic measures. And so the keg stands begun.

First, X-Man took his turn.

He lasted 21 seconds.

Next, after a little convincing, Blue decided he needed a go.

He lasted 6 seconds.

Then, after the birthday boys had their turns, Mr. Milly (who was manning the pump) turned to the person closest to him. That person just happened to be me.

So up I went.

And 10 or 11 seconds later (once I was sure I had beat Blue) I came down. Victorious.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. We drank. We mingled. We found a Sharpie and everyone proceeded to get tat tat tatted up.

At some point I got a sudden, splitting headache. So I chugged a bottle of water, took an Advil and asked X-Man if I could pass out on his bed for half an hour. He, of course because he’s wonderful like that, said yes.

I thought I set an alarm. I’m pretty sure I set an alarm. But somehow, I woke up at 10am, still in X-Man’s bed, with a half eaten Larabar next to me.

Go figure.

Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have freaked out so much. Quite a bit of time has passed since all the shitty shenanigans of last summer went down. All the people that were involved (including myself) are mature and fully capable of letting bygones be bygones. And we did.

By the time I said g’bye X-Man wasn’t the only person to give me a hug. I got not only a hug, but also an invitation back from Mr. Milly. Blue, of course, didn’t acknowledge me much, but that’s always been his nature so I’m not too terribly surprised. He was too busy babysitting Little Girl, anyway.

*Little Girl- a ridiculously annoying and immature 16 year old girl. She’s chock full-o-mental problems, one of which is her willingness to cause herself harm (or pretend to) or flaunt her issues in order to get attention.

My Sketchy Friends

Since coming home I’ve been spending a good amount of time with Adult. And after hanging out with him the handful of times that I have, I once again realize how much I treasure his friendship.

I know I sound mushy and sentimental and borderline ridiculous, but it needs to be said.

There’s a reason that Adult is the only ex I hang out with—there is an ease to our relationship that can’t be forced. We’re friends. I don’t constantly think of him as the guy I used to date and screw. I don’t wish we were still dating or get jealous or compare his actions now to his actions then.

We just are.

And it is wonderful.

One thing you should know about Adult is that he’s had a bit of a sordid past. Without getting into the nitty gritty of it, he was forced to grow up quickly and then abruptly kicked out of the grown-up club. When we dated it was right after his forced return to normalcy. That, without a doubt, was still throwing him for a loop.

But now, over a year after our short but sweet relationship, he is a completely different person. Maybe this is the person he would have been had it not been for his bumpy road. Maybe this is his slight rebellion against those bumps.

Whatever the reason for his transformation, I thoroughly enjoy it.

Last night is a perfect example of that new approach to life.

I showed up at his apartment with ChiChi and Greenbean, ready for a night of debauchery. There I met Adult’s new best man, Grill Master*. Together the 6 of us took shots of Kraken rum then piled into ChiChi’s car to make a quick beerstop before heading downtown to a house show hosted by “this guy with a house downtown,” as ChiChi described it.

While at first this seemed sketch beyond belief, it turned out to be a marvelous night.

The apartment was a super cool renovated loft, decked out in interesting art and Christmas lights. Despite the fact that there was no air conditioning and I seemed to attract just about every creeper in the place (including a guy that graduated from my high school a DECADE before I did), the music was good, the company was better, and the dancing was great.

Adult and Grill Master were silly drunk. And Adult may or may not have peed out a second story window…twice.

We left after the first band and returned to Adult’s bachelor pad so he and the Grill Master could grill up some tilapia (which they had been drooling over the whole ride home). Grill Master lit the coals, Adult didn’t defrost the fish so he put it on frozen and before the coals were ready, Grill Master kept lifting up his shirt and Adult kept freaking out about his neighbors seeing his bellybutton, Adult put far too much Old Bay seasoning on the fish, Grill Master poured some of his PBR on for good measure, and finally the fish was done.

Despite it being far too salty (and possibly not fully cooked) everyone thoroughly picked it over. I ate saltines.

I finally left around 2:30, much to the protest of Adult who kept trying to convince me that I drank half a handle and should sleep on his beanbag.

Like I said, a good night. Hopefully, there will be a repeat performance soon.

*Grill Master- a thoroughly tattooed guy who enjoys PBR, grilling while drunk, fishing and Southern humor.