Thursday, November 29, 2001

It's only just a Spring haze
But I don't much like the look of it...

Damn skippy, Tori.

I have been working away at my Bio research paper for the past three hours and have only completed three pages. Like the aesthetic freak I am, I've spent most of the time making really cute color coded graphs for my data. Color coded graphs = FIERCE!

God, I feel so Woe Is Me. These past few days have been nothing but a series of deadlines, dates and times to register, fees to pay, supervisors to meet with, yadda, yadda, yadda. :::SIGH:::
At any rate, I'm off to go work on a circular graph for Coastal Sage Scrub species diversity...

Sunday, November 25, 2001

Nous Allons Inventer Une Histoire!

It seems that my past with men has been nothing but a series of plots that the directors of The Young and the Restless would just die to wrap their sickly fingers around. All my love affairs---they're not really love affairs in the general sense of what a love affair really is, but there's something so tres romantic about the term love affair that I use it every chance I get (always makes me think of France)---have been plagued by some drama or the other. Whether it's battling for the affection of a deviated straight boy or trying to figure out if kissing your second cousin equates to incest, my search for love has been as tragic as a pregnant woman in a tube top. I'm a stranger to ordinary courtship. I just want to meet an average joe blow who's (a) not straight, not bi, but gay (b) completely single (c) not related to me (d) willing to take me out on a few awkward dates with a few awkward moments of silence. And maybe---how's this for a concept---just maybe, I'll wait until the second date to make friends with the one eyed snake. My dating status is REALLY getting ridiculous and out of hand.... Even John seems to be getting dates with normal people, and to imagine, with all FIVE senses intact! (love you john).

Well, I should stop bitching and finish my UC applications, which, on a side note, has been as gruesome as taking out my wisdom teeth.

Mary Katherine Ghallager in Superstar best captures my emotions at this moment when she says, while drenched in blue paint, "Sometimes, I just hate the way I am..."
Yeah, but don't cry for me Argentina....cuase I'm a survivor! =)

Thursday, November 22, 2001

This Thanksgiving has left me feeling more lonely than usual. Ordinarily, I would have found myself at some huge family gathering sitting at an overly gaudy dinner table, miniature plastic turkeys serving as napkin holders, with nothing but a plateful of yams and with a dozen balding Greek relatives, who not only love to eat turkey but lambs, rabbits, and any other animal that is remotely cute, whispering, "Not only is he gay, but he's a vegetarian too. You know what that means."

I've been lounging around my house all day with a runny nose and a god awful cough that keeps me from smoking. Me and my parents had a makeshift Thanksgiving dinner. Neither of them had any fantastic plans, so we decided to eat together in uncomfortable silence. Even tho I am not that big on holidays, I personally find them a waste of time and energy, I found myself kinda longing for those huge family get-togethers one sees on t.v. where grandpa gets all sauced up, the kitchen goes up in flames, and things just generally happen.
Nothing happens in my family.

So I ended up eating a plateful of yams alone (well my dog, my NEW dog, Rocky, sat near by salivating). Screw Thanksgiving. Who wants to be surrounded by friends and family and loved ones anyway? Oh no, NOT me. I have BETTER things to do. Like cataloging all the poems I wrote in high school, or helping my mother with cleaning the chandelier, or watching Me, Myself, and Irene....for the THIRD time.

I have plenty of excitement in my life thank you very much.

Tuesday, November 20, 2001

I've done a few things these past few days that I have not been altogether proud of, nothing I want my eulogy to be based on. Its nothing as scandalous as eating fried fetus or racing a paraplegic to the last seat on a bus or anything, but it's the sort of thing that can contribute to a bad image. It seems that I am not that easily understood or, moreso, my humor is misunderstood. Generally, I don't understand myself at times, the way I act, the way I speak. I think that people will just have the natural ability to strip away all my sarcastic, calloused layers as if I were a plump orange and see me for the bare, battered, emotionally weak---yet incredibly able---boy just looking to hold someone's hand...

Last night, after having two vanilla machiattos and stuffing my brain with biological jargon for my bio exam, I lay restless in my bed, twitching with anxiety like the severed tail of a lizard...

I watched TV...

It's amazing the kind of movies one can catch at 3:30 am. I spent two hours with Jack Nichelson and a story about a drunk driver who ran over a little girl (The Crossing Guard). In the end, Jack, the father, chases the murderous drunk (20 some years later) with a gun to the little girl's cemetery, both ending up kneeling at the headstone (which read Anne Something, Best Girl In Heaven. Isn't that cute?) holding hands and crying. Being really late, and with a cigarette in my mouth, my Bohemian switch turned on: "Hmm, it's interesting how we have the creator of life (the father) and the destroyer of life (the drunk) holding hands by the grave...Yet, ironically, it is the creator who wants to destroy the destroyer....blah blah blah.."

I went to sleep feeling even more depressed that night.
BUT! I did make a promise to myself to NEVER drive drunk again. You see, I'm working on my self-image. Next thing you know, I'll be wearing sage in my hair and pastels because of the positive energy they release...Oh, and I'm working on the smoking thing...

I did TWO good deeds today: (1) I woke my ass up at 9 (that's early) to take David to the DMV (he's car was stolen), and (2) I let this girl copy off me during the bio exam. Yah, I know we could have an ethical discourse debating that one, but for the sake of arguing, let's just admit that I am a soon to be saint and leave it at that...

Garrett called me today after five days. We had an argument which ended with me saying "Never call me again! I'm through with you....for the THIRD time!" He called and asked me how much I was paying for my car insurance. Now, I have two reasons to be pissed. (1) Even tho someone tells you to never call again, the normal response should be to call back immediately and profusely beg for forgiveness or admit ignorance and ask "but what did i DO??" (2) After five days, the only thing he could come up with is to ask me about the status of my monthly car insurance payments?? I promised to call him later. I won't.

In two hours, Elena and I are gonna haul our happy asses down to San Diego to see Tori Amos. Which reminds me, it's time to discuss wardrobe.
Wish me happy journeys, both literal and metaphoric! ha.

Saturday, November 17, 2001

I once wrote this one love poem that won me an honorable mention in the Mt. Sac Writer's Day competition, but the sad thing is, it was written for a fictitious person. I only realized how lame that is tonight; writing love poems to someone that doesn't exist. It almost feels illegal. Honestly, I've never been in love. Of course I've had those fickle moments where emotions are involved and everything takes on an urgent immediacy and importance, but that's not love; love's neither boastful nor loud (Lauryn Hill).
I've always thought that I would one day end up with someone who would waste away the nights with me eating Chinese take out and watching sappy love movies, entirely content in our exclusive bubble, but the older I get, the more nights I waste away eating Chinese take out while watching sappy love movies alone.
And writing love poems, just like this one, where the word "you" refers to absolutely no one.

What Your Words Do For Me (But I'm thinking of changing it to: To The One Who Will Eat Chinese Take Out With Me)

I love the hairy upper lip
of the woman who sold
me my cigarettes this morning---
She's the type of savior
I'd like to wear around my
neck: A Messiah of Matches.

I love my English professor
who tells me all about nouns.
I'd like to grab her by her
critical thinking arms and say:
My verb does agree
with your subject, baby.

I love the man who took
my garbage away this morning
like a thief: Quiet and unnoticed.
I'd like to sneak into his home
one night like an overfed Santa
and wash his dishes.

I love my mother today.
Her hands that I once thought
were huge and knew everything.
I'd like to braid her hair
and weave daisies in it.
I'd like to hold her like a daisy.

I love the ants
in my pink bathroom. The way
they smirk at me when I
unbutton my pants. One is
crawling up my leg. I let
it have its fun.

I love the color yellow.
It's as friendly as a fish
or an old book. I'd like to write
a book one day and call it
yellow because yellow is
the color of my joy.

I love the green car I'm writing
this in. the one my father bought and
told me all about life and oil changes in.
The color green is a precious color, he said.
I love the way my father rubs his nose
when he spends money.

I love the couple
in matching plaid shirts
walking together as if it were
a 70's love movie: Slow
and not giving a damn.
I love 70's love movies.

I love how it's starting
to rain right now
(I'm not lying) and the way
a man is putting a newspaper
over his head.
I love that newspaper.

I love the way you make
me love everything. The telephone
that feeds me your voice. The Chinese
mailman who gives me your letters.
This world that spit you out and
left you just for me.

The way you let
me know that love
is a five letter word
with two syllables
that I can use
whenever I want.

Friday, November 16, 2001


I made out with some guy Steven tonight. I don't know why exactly. I think I am so starved for affection that I resort to drunken kisses and slurred "i love you's". I am drunk. What's wrong with that? Other than that I have begun to realize that I have a problem with drinking (hey, it's a step in the right direction). But so fucking what? I am in love with everything in this very moment. I love the fact that I have such great friends in my life; the kind that will donate bone marrow for me. John is a sweetheart, and even tho I try to mask all my innermost emotions with jokes and sarcasm, I really do appreciate him as my friend because he is my TRUE friend and I can always rely on him (even tho he cannot always rely on me---but that is another subject). I love david right now who, even tho he momentarily disses me for his flavor of the week albert, is genuinely a caring and sensitive guy---someone who would fend of a squadron of attacking hyenas for me...
And, oddly enough, I love garrett right now who just sent me an email apologizing for not being himself these past few weeks, for not letting me know how much he really cares, for pretending that I do not play an influential role in his life. He's a bastard, yes, but he's a bastard that I love...

You know, drunks get a bad wrap. It seems that I come to the greatest conclusions and epiphanies when I'm drunk. Yes, I may not remember them in the morning, but nonetheless, they occur---and with a feverish impulse I might add...

I think that I spend most of my sober moments trying to protect myself, cause God knows I've been dealt with many blows below the belt, that it is only when I am drunk, when my defenses are momentarily suspended that is, that I begin to acknowledge what is REALLY important in my life...It's at these moments, with rum clinging onto my breath, that I just want to squeeze the life out of everything...

Maybe it is lame to have to be intoxicated to appreciate life.
But maybe it's just the way in which I operate?

My philosophy professor, Sushma Hall which I utterly adore at this moment (especially the way in which she speaks to me with subtle eye contact, as if she had journeyed into my deepest, darkest secrets and unraveled my being as if it were a coiled up slinky), says that life is not worth living if we do not attempt to stretch it to its utmost limit, and I, for one, fucking believe her...

I may not be able to walk in a straight line,
but I can waltz, and sing, and whistle, and say I love you...
and damn well mean it...

Thursday, November 15, 2001

Just finished writing up my philosophy paper on meme theory and cultural evolution. Not my best work but it will have to do seeing that it was done the night before its due in a frenzy of two hours. But, it did get me to think for a while, which is always a plus...
In short, a meme is anything, ranging from an idea, behavior, catchy tune or slogan, than can be imitated and passed on to other people. It can be made analogous to a gene; a gene's sole purpose being to replicate itself in future generations. Yah, boring, boring, yadda, yadda, so what? right? Well, according to some sociobiologists, homosexuality can be seen as a meme. I'll spare you the gory details, but yes, it does make for a compelling case that it is, in fact, a behavior that can be imitated and that is formulated and sealed, I guess, within someone at a young age (I never was too found of biological explanations; it made it sound as if being gay was a tragic mistake in nature)...
But one thing: the majority of gay people I know have no desire to procreate, which is, in a biological sense, human's ultimate purpose in life. But if more gay people apt to not have kids, aren't we in a sense leading towards extinction? Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but in a bizarre sense, this is true. And even if homosexuality were grounded in genetic factors, natural selection would have us weeded out sooner or a tail or third eye.

Let's face it, gays are on their way out...which would be cause for celebration for the fundies in our world...
Or, better yet, maybe I should begin to get chummy chummy with some lesbian couple: A turkey baster and nine months later and presto!, out comes another alien looking child who will, no doubt, be branded with the name Liberty or Hope or something or the other symbolizing our continual struggle for equality in a patriarchal, oppressive, and homophobic society!


Or maybe I should get some sleep and, as Garrett always tells me when I ask him if he loves me, stop being so damn dramatic.

Tuesday, November 13, 2001

I spent four freaking hours hiking in some canyons by the Claremont colleges for my Bio class today. I'm sure it would have been a lovely experience if the SUN was out....Rather, it was fucking Antarctica up there. Afterwards I went to Applebees with these two girls from class (btw, why are straight girls fascinated by gay men? They spent the majority of the night asking me odd questions like "oh my god, do u take it from the you know where?" or "like, are you the man or woman in the relationship?" I felt as if I was on Oprah lets-get-to-know-fags 2001).

And now I'm home, alone, having nothing to occupy myself with...See, if I had a boyfriend, I would have something to do other than twiddle my fingers. God, I want something NEW to happen in my life already...Someone NEW to be calling me and asking me all those deep questions you ask someone you just met and want to know better, like what they think about abortion or what their favorite season is...

But no, my plans for tonight are doing homework and possibly going running with Elena. I shouldn't complain. At least I have all my limbs and all my internal organs seem to be functioning well....It could be worse. What's my big beef with routine anyway? I'm a whore for change, for anything exciting and new...(the loveboat?)
Garrett called my twice today and left two, count em, TWO voicemails. This is paramount in my "relationship" with him. Since I decided to play it passe and indifferent, he's been on the offensive, calling almost everyday wanting to know where I am, who I'm with, and whether I would come over. I suppose I'm beginning to like the attention. I think I'll let him suffer for a while. God knows I've had to bear a cross or two for him (lol, god that sounds dramatic)...

Elena called. I guess I am going running. Hopefully a stunningly gorgeous man driving a new Lexus will run me over, causing me to be temporarily paralyzed, and, feeling immense guilt, takes me on a month long cruise to the Caribbean where he falls madly in love with me and I make a startling recovery, rising out of my wheelchair at the moment we are whispering our vows to each other on a beach side cliff...
ya think?

Monday, November 12, 2001

My dog died today.

She had been sick these past few days and was kept indoors. These last two days she, as if she knew death were coming, refused to come inside and rather slept in a hole she dug out in the yard. I went looking for her this morning, her pill in my hand, and found her in her hole covered with flies...

I don't know why, but I cried like a little boy. I was surprised to find her dead; but doesn't death have a habit of surprising us all?

I found an old bedsheet and covered her; I thought she deserved that much at least. My father and brother thought it a good idea to have her picked up but I thought that was revolting. I didn't want some stranger lugging my Jana into a furnace...Yes, she's a dog, but she was my dog damn it. I proposed to bury her and they all announced they had immediate business to tend to.

I buried her alone by the lemon tree in the hole she had already begun. It's as if she was doing us a favor, making her preparations. My dad helped me carry her. When we were finished I felt like asking him where dogs went when they died, but I knew he didn't have an answer and there's nothing worse than having a parent with no answers...

I feel so foolish and childish to be THIS affected by my dog's death but she was such a delicate and precious creature and I'm going to miss the way she whined at me in her high pitched cry...

I wrote in my pocket book today:

My dog died on Veteran's day
My brother laughed
My father made plans
My mother's not speaking to me

And I cried...


From spending the night at a really seedy Motel 8, racing decked out Acura Integras on the 10 Fwy during monsoon weather, and spending over $100 on completely useless junk, I would say my weekend has been quite eventful.

But there's this one underlying factor that bothers me: I've been drunk each night. I think I should be concerned. I am not an alcoholic; I know that much, but can I have fun---the same amount of fun---without drinking? Wait, isn't that a sign of alcoholism??? But drinking has become such an integral part of the routine of going out, it would be like a death of a loved one to go out without the usual rum and coke in a 7-11 super gulp cup in hand or not having an occasional purple hooter or kamikaze at the bar with the girls. How do people do it, get all dolled up and eager to go out and say "I'll just have a coke"?!?!? This probably has something to do with my Greek heritage or the fact that the only time I see my parents laughing or actually coming close to physical contact is when they're both rosy-cheeked with wine...

I feel as if I need a month long retreat up into the mountains where I meet some wise man who sets me on an arduous and intensive workout program (i.e., cutting logs and treading through the snow barefoot) where I return with a gleam in my eyes and a "don't fuck with me" stern look...

Oi vey...I've done absolutely NO studying this weekend and my workload has increased these past few days, compliments of the new education class I had to add because of my job...(I need to be taught how to teach.. god, don't they trust me?)
My neurons are completely spent! Why can't I find some mindless job that will let me pursue the more meaningful things in life, namely finding the great love of my life and the number of drinks it takes for me to drop my chonies??

Screw Coke.

Saturday, November 10, 2001

Baker, Baker, baking a cake,
Make me a day; Make me whole again...

I had thought that I was finished with Garrett. I had convinced myself that I hated him; that I wished every std known to man upon him; that I could turn over the page of this silly affair and abandon it in the garage where we keep other unsightly and useless artifacts...but I guess I wasn't.
We ended up lying side by side on the beach by the Santa Monica pier the other night talking about what had happened. "You know, I never stopped liking you. I want you to know that", he said. And even though he had spent the majority of the night being incredibly dense, unwitty, unimaginative, and unresponsive (i.e., blank stares) to the comedic pearls of wisdom I was dishing out all night---all in all, the antithesis in what I look for in someone---I believed him. And we fell back into the routine of using sex as a form of intimacy and connection---there, by the pier and the Ferris wheel and the ocean and the alcohol...
That night I snuck Garrett into my room through my window the way we had done many times in high school. Sleeping together in my small bed, I felt as if I were being smothered by my past: Three years later, many accomplishments to speak of, and there I was again, my arm around Garrett, in that same bed, that same room, and that same fear of being caught by my parents in the same, stagnant air.
What is it about this situation that I can't rid myself of? Some schoolboy crush I'm still clinging onto? Some foolish infatuation? Something I had to prove to myself? Or, more simply, the mere fact that it just is something?

Whenever sharing a bed with someone, I have a tendency to not be able to sleep. I worry that I will move too much, nudge or kick, or, god forbid, SNORE. Loudly. Usually I stay awake all night keeping still, getting drunk off the warm body lying next to me (obviously, I don't get many nightly visitors), not wanting to disturb or ruin the experience...

That morning I found myself staring at Garrett sleeping. I swear, he could be a poster boy for Neutrogena. At any rate, there I was, head leaning on hands, staring at his beautiful body and, amist my love haze, I hear the most cacophonous fart come out of him; my mouth, along with my romanticism of him, dropped. I was literally slapped in the face with realism which, though I think I need not remind anyone, can be a most humbling and shattering experience.

I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, and walked back into my room with a firmer grasp on my reality. I stared down at Garrett who was openmouthed and snoring at an obscene volume and thought to myself:
You've had your fun; you've had your good times. But get a hold of yourself damn it. Wake up stupid queer! You need someone who will appreciate you; someone who will appreciate it when you talk about Tolstoy or Voltaire or how gravity works on a Ferris Wheel; someone who will laugh at your jokes rather than give you a furrowed eyebrow look and a "what?"; someone who will hold you all night, silently counting you breath...

I drove Garrett back to Hollywood later that day and dropped him off the way one would drop off a package or old clothes at the Salvation Army: Unattached.

"You're a great fuck, " I told him "but let's leave it at that."
And he agreed, no questions asked.

Tuesday, November 06, 2001

Gays Are People Too!

is what I wanted to bark back at the herd of Billabong Clad straight guys taking a cigarette break from their Mechanics 101 class who took it upon themselves to snicker at me as I passed, "Gays are people too dammit!"

But all in all, straight men are a peculiar species: Cute, in an oblivious and messy kinda way, but like the cute abandoned puppy on the side of the road, they're adorable and lovable until they shit on your carpet or start dry humping Grandma.

But they are equally fascinated by us too, the "lighter side of Sears" kinda guys. Take Rob, an entirely hetero guy in my Bio class, who I catch eyeing me every now or then, knowing that he's just dying to ask: "How does it feel???" They like to flirt with us as if we were some exotic animal, throwing peanuts at us trying to see how provokable we are; if we will attack. But NEVER in the presence of buds. Flirting with fags is a behind-closed-doors kind of sport.

But really, isn't it every fag's hidden Freudian wish to be with a manly man: A caterpillar boot wearing guy who sucks splinters out of his hands who responds to your overly dramatic question "Doesn't that HURT???" with an overly sedated and brute "No" ? Admit it. You want to wilt into some hunk's arms while the world spins on its axis, while you're safe, you're kept, you're that somebody he'd break someone's nose for. Just the thought makes my heart beat as if it belonged to an 80 year old man receiving his first blow job in decades: DELIRIOUS and wild with PASSION.

But maybe that's just me...

Sunday, November 04, 2001

Insomnia. Hate it. Spent most of the night reading David Sedaris' Barrel Fever. Loved that. Spent last two hours watching Pacino in Author! Author! for, what it seems, the 17th time. Still indecisive about that one: waste of time or opportunity to stock up on Jewish humor? Tomorrow's Sunday. Or a nice way of saying, a day before Monday. I feel the Monday morning anxiety coming on. I dont wanna go to school. I dont wanna go to work. I wish someone would pay me to decorate their apartment with shag carpeting and stainless steel furniture... I would make a fortune. I swear.

I don't think I'd ever want anyone to kill themselves over me---maybe shed a nostalgic tear when accidentally coming across a tucked-away-in-the-shoebox picture of me; or, the very least, take melancholic drives past my house, singing along to Roxette's "It Must Have Been Love (but it's over now)" and smoking compulsively; OR, the very very least, clear a space for me on his futon rather than having me wander about aimlessly on Santa Monica Blvd. at 3 am looking like a disheveled prostitute bumming around for bus change (but let's not go there)...
I watched a Japanese (I think it was Japanese, or was it Chinese? John hates it when I can't tell the difference; borderline insult i think) gay movie with John tonight. I had told him I was in the mood for a CUTE, emphasis on cute, gay movie. In short, some Chinese guy flings himself off a building Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon style cause his father (you know, the serious, "let me tell you about the value of family and tradition" type) catches him sitting on his boyfriends face (not really, but it paints quite a picture, doesn't it?). John let out one of those now-that's-real-love sighs at the end of the movie, and I felt like letting out a I-just-ate-a-burrito fart.....
But serious, I'm not into that fireworks-in-the-ass kinda love anymore. I don't need a suicide letter to let me know that someone loves me...Picture the irony (or stupidity): " Jacinto injected himself with an extremely deadly and uncurable strain of malaria..Gee, he must really love me..."
Just give me something simple; something that I can frame on my wall or wrap up in a flannel blanket. Yeah, I'm sure it'd be a thrill to have someone drag you up a 300 foot bridge, blind fold each other and say: "love will keep us alive!" and walk on the railings while reciting James Joyce, but what kind of love is it when you have to dress it up---the kind you have to test as if it were a duracel battery just to see if it were still alive and kicking?

I guess the kinda love I'm looking for is like a Volvo: ordinary, safe, but god damn reliable...

Thursday, November 01, 2001

No Such Thing as a Free Epiphany

It took $75 dollars and a Latvian cab driver to make me realize that I should expect nothing from anyone.

Halloween night, after putting together a baby spice/fairy/angel/hollywood-gaytrash costume in 20 minutes, I headed out to West Hollywood for the "block party" bash---drinking an extremely strong rum and coke on the way....At any rate, we get there and in my usual drunken self, I meandered around blessing cute guys in fireman and army regalia with my magic wand, running around in the streets waving at passing cars, sending video messages to "our troops" in Afghanistan (no joke), and just generally being a silly and obnoxious drunk. Fastforward to later on in the night, I look around and I can't find John in his Vietnamese wear nor David in his King Tut ensemble (they both were feeling ethnic for some reason this halloween). And just as any content drunk would do, I said "oh well", straightened my halo head dress, and went and joined the drag queens. There's something almost electrical about walking in massive crowds, spending a second of your time with each person you happen to stumble on to. All the randomness, the amplitude, all that massive confusion just makes my teeth itch, and in a good way.
But back to me being lost: Luckily, I stumbled on to Elena and Noah---whom we were supposed to meet in front of Rage but never really got around to it---and we decided to go on a three man search for the nearest liquor store which, we eventually found out, was 2 miles away (Equation: four inch platforms + 2 miles = HELL). But let me speed things up because this narrative is even getting boring to me... We got more rum, drank behind some seedy apartment building, Noah passes out, Elena wants to leave, I say "no!" and start dancing to "In the Navy", but then the music ended and I found myself sitting on a curb behind Gay Mart USA with a cowboy asking me in a really bad southern accent whether I minded him "draining his snake". A whitetrash girl friend of his in daisy dukes and a I LOVE VEGAS t-shirt one size too small for her, seeing that I was too drunk to be bothered, in turn, squat next to me and let it rip.
At that point, I get a call from David telling me that they were leaving and asking whether I had a ride. And for some reason that is completely beyond me now that I'm sober, I said yes. And so, with Rod's and Thelma's piss on my soles, I strapped on my pink vinyl Barbie backpack and made my way back to the crowd and the Black trannies whose names were Cookie or Neon Momma or something with the word chocolate in it, no doubt.
But then, as I began to sober up, it sank in that I was stranded and alone. It was too late for me to call John or David; they were probably home already and I had already caused enough drama that night by getting lost etc. etc. I couldn't call Noah or Elena either---they had no cell phones. I had only one option: Garrett.
It took me 20 minutes to walk down to his apartment and I had to pace around for an extra 5 minutes before mustering up the courage to actually call...Here's the abridged version of the conversation:

Me, slurring somewhat: Garrett! I'm screwed, I'm stranded, I have no ride...HELP ME!
Garrett: Dude, that sucks. Are you sure they're gone?
Me: Yeah, all of them think I have a ride home and so they LEFT.
Garrett: Dude, I'd give you a ride home but Shirley's over (Note: Shirley is his yenta girlfriend). Try to find them and then page me later.
Me: But, umm.... (DIAL TONE).

And so I sat my fairy ass on a bus stop off of Santa Monica Blvd., the Pleasure Chest to my back, and was asked TWICE whether I was looking for a date by less than honorable-looking characters. I called and woke up Chris who was ready to come get me, but then I began to feel FURIOUS. I called Garrett again:

Me: Garrett, what the fuck, I don't know what to do.
Garrett: It's almost 2, my roommate is gonna get mad. (and then he goes on this spiel about how people have things to do in the morning and that you can't go around calling people in the middle of the night when you have problems)
Me: Would you rather have me sleep on a bench than disturb you?
Garrett: long sigh You can't stay here, Shirley's staying the night...

And then I completely saw red and I am almost positive that every fag in a 2 mile radius heard me send Garrett to hell...
I found the first cab that took credit cards and asked the driver to get me the hell out of here. "Where??" he said.. I must have looked like a lunatic: My silver halo, bent and wretched; my pink eyeshadow smearing, half the jewels fallen off from my eyelids, the other half barely clinging on; and me, looking miserable as ever, crying while tightly clutching on to my Barbie bag. "What is wrong?" my driver asked in his thick Russian accent. And tho I didn't say it, the truth of the matter was that I was stupid and careless; that I thought that if I gave enough, I would receive the same; that I let myself fall for someone who didn't give a damn about whether I slept out on the street; and that I was, most of all, embarrassed and disgusted at myself...

"It's just been a bad night" I said....And he nodded.